


What I did This Summer

by Keitmeg



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 07, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-14 20:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keitmeg/pseuds/Keitmeg
Summary: Mickey is out, but he isn't a fugitive on the run. He comes back to put his life back together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilbatfacedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbatfacedgirl/gifts).



 

 

A shadow suddenly flickers across his face as he stands outside the metal gates, facing the world he thought he’d long since said goodbye to. He spots the hypnotic spin of a giant wind turbine only a few meters away, whirring against the humid air.

_Whoop, whoop, whoop_

The whirring goes on, distorted.

 

With his regularity of being barricaded inside those cells, Mickey has always taken freedom for grated; he’d always be out sooner than anyone estimated. This time is no different. He is out one year and a half later, when he is supposed to be in there for fifteen –eight for good behavior. But some guy with an accent, in a suit, changed his reality. He is granted his freedom back after the charges were dropped for lack of evidence. But if he ponders it, he knows he’s just wanted out to make more space.

But this time is different.

This time, he doesn’t plan on falling into the same rut.

He’s been there, done that more times than he cares to count and maybe what he does need is a change of attitude. The monotonous life in prison has somewhat changed Mickey’s way of thinking. He sat there one night, surrounded by the quiet of the night, and had an honest moment with himself. Did he want to continue to be what he is, and continue making the same mistakes, or did he want to make something for himself, of himself, and be proud of it.

 

The whirring of the blades continuous, undisturbed, Mickey takes his first step into the world after a year and a half.

Whoop, whoop, whoop…

 

 

A bubbly shriek snaps his attention from the ground to his right, finding two girls inside an 80$ shopping cart with another boy pushing it; someone must have stolen the damn thing and abandoned it somewhere before it became those children’s new treasure. Theft prevention precautions can go down the sewer for all he cares; those kids are having the fun of their live.

As he walks on, his head lowered, Mickey is suddenly hit with a flash of his own childhood, in these neighborhoods. It’s funny how one goes from chasing stray dogs with rocks to becoming one of the most infamous thug pimps in the South Side. It’s not that it isn’t realistic, it’s just funny.

He really never bothered to make the right choices, things have been decided for him the moment he was born to a father like Terry Milkovich. Well, it’s what he would like to think. You can’t really choose your parents, or so they say; but you always have a choice and Mickey thinks he just really never stopped to consider that.

On a different note, he reminds himself that not all of his choices were wrong. Not when it came to Mandy, or Ian or protecting his brothers. It also wasn’t wrong when he finally let himself love his baby boy son.

God! There’s so much he’s missed in the kid’s life. Sure, he was there for a few of it, but not when it counted.

He knows his way of showing his sister affection was always so roundabout, and he knows that Mandy, being the only girl in the family, was always resourceful when it came to protecting herself but he wishes he showed more. She is, after all, still a girl. In the few times she came to visit, she had seemed better, considering the last he saw of her she was still submitting to Kenyatta and his violence. She told him she was living in a better condition now that she was back and providing for herself.

 

A full-figured, dark-skinned short woman walks past him with her phone on her ear, bellowing into it about her dead drunk bastard of a husband and how she isn’t going to let him into her life again.

 

He quirks his lips; good on her!

He never understood this need to be around someone so destructive despite knowing that they would wrong you time and again, no matter how much you forgive them. He thinks it’s because they love. That stupid thing makes you want to see the good thing in that one person; closing eyes against that one day they could take you down.

He knows that his choice to at least try to come to grips with Ian’s bipolar diagnosis was the right one. He was deterred at first. Ian was slowly but surely becoming something that he’s not. It scared him to witness the change like paint slowly peeling off the wall. But he’d gone over that eventually, and gave himself and Ian, and what they had, a chance. He never regretted it.

Growing up the way they did, it was drilled into him and his siblings that sentiments were a weakness. There was never any display of affection and the thought alone makes Mickey snort against the balmy wind that ruffles his strands against his neck. Terry and affection were on two opposite direction, and that’s why Ian had this impact on his life.

Mickey wasn’t used to being loved, wasn’t used to being treasured; he’d always fought against succumbing or allowing himself to indulge in it. He always feared something like that would eventually be scooped right from under his feet so he kept his guards up. He realized later that he was hurting Ian by doing so.

He deserved to be loved, he finally convinced himself. Letting Ian do it for both of them wasn’t fair to the guy.

The moment he allowed Ian in, he knew he was never going to be ready to let him out. When Mickey loved, he loved with all his might, his soul and energy.

He also never regretted that.

 

The neighborhood hasn’t changed at all, not really.

 

He looks up, realizing that the map of his memory has brought him home at last. The glazing sun shines against the glass of the windows, showing him how deserted the house is. 

Walking past the fence and bounding up the stairs, he heads to the panel in the right corner, steps on it until it lifts from one side. He takes out the key and unlocks the door.

Mickey steps into the house, dust particles surround him in greeting. The place hasn’t been used in months, not since his brothers left each seeking his own path in life.

Iggy was in Alabama last he heard of him. Collin ended up in prison somewhere in Texas and that’s the farthest a guy like Colin would go to with his loose moral compass. He doesn’t know what came of Eugene but he knows he isn’t going to sit and stew about him. That’s just how they operated. That’s just how it’s always been.

The panels continue to creak under the brunt of his boots as he marches in farther, taking in the entire interior with his lip between his teeth. There are different memories attached to every corner, to every piece of furniture and behind every door in his vicinity.

Mickey draws the curtains, letting some of the sun’s beams gush in, washing everything in its brilliance. He’s been cooped in that cell for long enough, enough to appreciate the natural daylight for what it is. He finds empty beer cans on the coffee table, dry cigarette halves and rolls in the ashtray and mold eating the corners of the carpet beneath. The smell is stale inside.

The doors of the gun closet are open, and although it’s been half cleaned up from the firearms, there are still a few lined on the shelves. The corner takes him into the kitchen with the decayed stench luring him to the fridge, he goes to it with his palm on his nose and mouth. He’s only in this area to drink some water, but it doesn’t come as a surprise when no water runs out of the tap. The fridge isn’t buzzing either, a tell-tale of the power cut.

Mickey heads to his room now, preferring to face the needs of the house later, as in tomorrow; he needs a nap first. The door moans as he pushes it slowly open, finding that it has sunk in darkness as well. His bed sheets are still rumpled; there are a couple of beer bottles on the nightstand and a pack of Marlboro.

His fatigue suddenly amplifies at the reminder of what he lost, of what he could still have if the right choices were made. In the dimly-lit room, Mickey sees the apparition of someone sleeping soundly on the bed. He knows it’s in his head. He knows it’s what he would like to see. But nobody lives in this house anymore.

As he lays his head on the pillow, the nostalgia fused with yearn overwhelm him that he curls up a little, hating to dive into the sweet taste of every good memory being in love has landed his way.

 

 

The crackle and the shouts of kids startle him awake; Mickey remains there, sprawled like a starfish and only staring at the ceiling. Since he decided to take the wheel for what he should do to better his life, Mickey takes a moment to study his next move.

Mickey needs to bring his sister back. She wasn’t shy about disclosing the kind of work she did, but if she was finding solace in that kind of shady job, that’s just assessment to how shitty her life here has been. He would like to change that for her. At least try to. He would like to do the same for his son as well. He would like the little rat to come and visit; he knows his ex-wife isn’t going to let him stay, but Mickey is amped to make his visits very much worth their while.

He needs to fix this damn house. Every corner reminds him of something, and so he is certain the same would be for Amanda so he settles on making changes around the house. It’s going to require money; renovations aren’t charitable work.

He assumes he can get a couple of stacks for those guns. He is sure he stashed more somewhere where people couldn’t find. It’s a one-story building so he figures not much will need to be done. There are other two bedrooms in this house, none of which are currently used so he will take the liberty to change a few things, including the paint, the direction and position of a few things like furniture and electronics. He will most definitely change Mandy’s room to somewhere else. Make use of the other unoccupied room. She’s going to have her own bathroom, too. He feels giddy just thinking about her reaction.

He is going to do that even if it takes him the rest of the year, but he is.

Not on an empty stomach, however.

 

 

There are a few bills in his pockets, so Mickey chooses to pamper himself with pepperoni pizza. He finds a beer bottle which expiration date has ended a couple of months ago, but he shrugs it off.

As he sits at the steps of his porch waiting for his pizza with his beer by his foot, he eyes the bustle of his rowdy neighbors’ kids lighting up fireworks and sending them crackling towards the darkened sky.  It must be some sort of holiday and they must be celebrating something; not that he cares.

A beat-up maroon Volvo parks by the sidewalk, and a shabby, lanky-looking guy walks out, one box of pizza in his hand. Mickey is already waving the couple of bills for the man to take, which he does, handing over the pizza in exchange and leaving soon after.

Mickey enjoys his pizza, enjoys the break and the dusk breeze that moves his locks, because he knows it’s the last leeway he’s going to allow himself starting from tomorrow.

 

He felt the life being sucked out of him when he paid the two bills back inside that building. He doesn’t have a bank account. That’s why the pain of giving away money felt more spoken. It doesn’t matter. He will have electricity and water back, and that’s a good step towards making good changes.

 

Meeting up with Jerry Winchester, whom Mickey’s pretty sure owned the name for selling firearms; he shows him the bunch of guns he has in his duffle bag. And after going back and forth with prices, Mickey settles for the few grands the man offers in the end.

He spends a few bucks in a minimarket, gathering a few supplies, along with food and beer. He’s cut down on smoking one pack of cigarette a day, so he doesn’t bother.

 

Before the shower, Mickey decides on picking out the rubbish littering the house. He’d have plenty of time to shower later, he knows he needs one but the excuse of contacting dead germs in the things he’s throwing offers him more reason to delay a little.

As the plastic bags pile on at the porch outside with everything that he’s thrown so far, Mickey starts to see more and more of the house. There’s so much of useless stuff just lying around taking up space. He is glad he took this step. He has already emptied the fridge, the expired food in the cupboards and the garbage in his own drawers. If his drawers didn’t skip the cleaning barrage, then none of the other drawers in the other rooms will either. He gets rid of almost everything, even the carpet.

Just because he was born in this family, just because he was accustomed to the mess, it didn’t necessarily mean it was mandatory to live in it and accept it.

The sun has changed its angle in the sun, peeking behind the faraway skyscrapers. Mickey decides to take a quick smoke break, but reminding him that no cigarette purchases have been made and that the last one in he smoked was early this moment, he settles for cooking a meal instead.

He will need to find a job as soon as his work here is done.

 

Unlike the night before, there’s illumination in his house and more energy buzzing through him. His stomach is full and he is fresh clean from that shower. He would like to relax by the porch now.

He wonders if he’s growing this into a habit.

He can’t do that during winter, he could, but it would be uncomfortable and he always hated feeling discomfort.

There’s nothing to celebrate for the kids to have reasons to blow things off. Mickey could really use some peaceful time with his beer keeping him company.

He should call Mandy and check on her. He should call her over, convince her to leave whatever shit job she’s stuck into and have her stay here, with him. There’ll come a time when he will do the same for his son, but that time has to wait.

Yevgeny’s ability to make people fall in love with him is a skill all Milkoviches sadly lack. Mickey remembers how he couldn’t even stand the idea of looking at him, but as the days gone by, his son was slowly becoming someone precious, someone who’d kill for to protect.

Being gay had nothing to do with his son, he eventually learned, and he had to thank his ex-wife for drawing the bigger picture. You can be gay and love another man and still have a son.

It’s not like Mickey was his father; Terry wouldn’t have bothered to consider, least of all provide.

 

Another breeze swings by uninvited, yet still welcomed. Mickey feels it brushing his hair again, and that takes his mind off his family for a moment. Taking another reckless swig of his beer, he starts to rake his own fingers through his hair. He’s growing it out. There’s no meaning behind it either, he just wants to try something different. He doesn’t know if the long locks suit him, but he likes the ticklish feeling on his nape.

 

The next morning dawns, bright and warm, Mickey turns over his bed with a small sigh, kicking off the duvet and slipping out of the room altogether.

The smell of cooked eggs soars in the room, momentarily coating the stale scent that still clung to the walls, desperate in its clutch. Mickey sets his breakfast (scrambled eggs, sausages and cheese) on the kitchen counter and plants himself on the stool. There used to be a time in his life when eating breakfast in peace was a luxury, something to wish for amidst the chaos, now he almost hated how the house wasn’t bumping with life anymore.

 

He knows he said he was changing Mandy’s room, but he couldn’t do the same to his, not after the guy in the photo he found when he first went foraging through the drawers, looking back at him with a smug. The posters are gone, the magazines too. Most of what used to make Mickey’s room his is now in the dumpster down the block. But this is more than that, much more. It isn’t just a picture. It embodies a soul of its own; it’s been with him through tough times in his life, giving him a reason to hold on and Ian was his reason. Has always been, and always will be despite their break-up, despite the ginger moving on from him so easily.

 

 

Mickey can’t believe he just spent almost an hour trying to take his bed and everything that belonged to him inside the room out, but if he’s always working on paint then it’s all worth it. He scrubbed the shower clean earlier. Thrust all of his sheets into the washing machine and peeled off the mold and the floppy layers of old paint. He gives himself a triumphant smirk because he can do this.

It might take the rest of the week, month even, to finally get the entire house redone, but he is positive in his skills. It’s the one skill he picked up from prison trying to teach him things about handcrafts.

 

By the evening, Mickey leans on the doorframe of his bedroom with a turkey sandwich in hands. The headboard of his bed is still facing the same direction beside the window ledge. It’s a relatively medium-sized bed so there is enough space left in the path leading to his bathroom considering all the garbage he took out. The room looks much more spacious with the light gray paint on the walls and the white on the ceiling. It’s insane how a slight color scheme can change the entire view.

He will place the lamps back on the two nightstands at each side of the bed later, but not the ones he has. They’re too big; they gather too much dust too quickly and take up a lot of space. No carpets this time is a good choice; it’d make things easier for him if he wanted to clean this place up again.

 

A quick shower rids him of the smears of paint on his face and arms, and of the pungent odor of solvents. He hasn’t decided on what’s for dinner yet, but he might settle for macaroni and cheese. It’s easier to make, and he wouldn’t have to wait too much in order to sate hunger.

 

The neighborhood isn’t empty, but it isn’t as full as Mickey expected it to be either. The beer goes down his gullet, soothing the dryness and eliciting a satisfactory sigh from his lungs.

Sitting here with the door open behind him and all the windows open, he finds that he is more prone to getting the strong smell of paint past his nostrils, but it’s not like he has other options. Besides, he likes this new peaceful routine, he finds that he likes it a lot.

He’s seen a lot of people walk past his house, some acknowledged him with curt nod of head or saluted him with gushing ‘it’s been a while, how’s going!’, and gave only curt answers each time. He really wants to take this slow. And then, when Carl, dressed in a black suit jacket and trousers, walks and grinds to a stop in front of his fence, Mickey finds that the curt answers might not be enough this time.

“Hey Mickey,” he says in his deep, puberty voice. “When did you get out?”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder. “A while now”

Carl nods, almost absent-mindedly, before finally walking past the fence and standing before Mickey. “Monica died.”

Mickey’s asymmetric brows arch up. “Who’s Monica?”

“My mom.” Carl twists his lips a little, his chin meeting his chest.

“Oh,” this really was more than the curt conversations Mickey could handle with all his own baggage, thank you very much. But Carl is different. He and Carl bonded before. It’s true they were never personal, but Ian gave them a reason to be a little more than just strangers. But, Carl, for all his grandiose, now he look like the child he was never allowed to be growing up in this neighborhood. “You okay?”

Carl nods again, eyes lifting up.

“Here,” Mickey hands his beer to the boy. “It helps.”

Appreciating the offering, Carl takes the bottle and hops to sit down beside Mickey. As the latter debates whether to delve into this more or let the little man drink his pain away, Carl takes him out of his misery unknowingly after taking a large gulp.

“Smells really strong in here.”

Mickey considers the comment for a beat. “Yeah,” he points a finger over his shoulder. “Been doing some paint work. Place looked dead.”

“Did some, too.” Carl returns the beer to Mickey, “Graffiti. Had to honor her memory somehow, although, she didn’t leave much to be remembered by.”

“Most people don’t.” Mickey defends.

“What’s up with the hair?”

Mickey’s fingers automatically rake through the long, smooth strands at that. “Just going for new here, dude, you got a problem with that?”

Carl lifts placating hands. “I’m not bashing. You look good with longer hair.”

“What’s up with the get-up, though?” Mickey taunts now.

Carl snorts, “Military school.”

Mickey takes a lazy sip and hums. He remembers Ian’s ambitions, prior to and even after Mickey’s wedding. “You Gallaghers must get a hard-on from that; Ian was in ROTC not too long ago.”

Carl chuckles and then blows a sigh. “Ian gave up West point. Unlike him, I’m in it to win it. A guy said I should go navy.” He tacks on. “Ian wears a uniform now, though, EMT.”

Mickey scoffs slightly.

That’s when the younger man looks up at Mickey with a faint scowl. “You guys still talk?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“He came to the funeral with his boyfriend.” Carl reports, “I still assumed –I don’t know what, or why, really. It feels like forever since you and Ian been together. Was kind of getting used to it, I guess.”

Mickey smiles around the neck of the bottle, but realizing it is empty, he sets it down. “Things change.”

“You might be right,” Carl hugs his knees to his chest, eyes scanning the street as it slowly drowns in darkness. “He isn’t manic anymore. He takes his meds so that’s the upturn. But, hey, I got circumcised.”

Mickey chuckles for the first time in a long time; Carl’s transitioning is something to ponder, “Must have been painful.”

“Not like my break-up though,” he quickly says, “I really liked Dominique. I don’t get how I get cheated on, lied to and broken up with for simply liking her.”

Mickey realizes that the boy’s already been enough today, and he doesn’t see his hand moving until it’s in Carl’s hair. “If it’s any consolation, I got dumped too for loving your brother.” He says, and the boy peers into his eyes with a frown, Mickey retrieves his hand and mimics Carl’s position. “There are times when love is not the only answer, not the only solution. They say that love conquers all, but you know what I think, I think it’s reality that does. People will always be selfish, that’s the kind of world we live in.”

Carl faces the light pole across the street.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t fall in love; that would be unfair.” He adds, “But before you give your heart on a fucking platter, you should study your choices first. That’s the only thing I learned from dating Ian.”

Nodding, Carl lifts up with a grunt and stands before Mickey again. “Thanks, Mickey,” he simply says, taking the older man by surprise. “I like you better than his current boyfriend.”

Mickey holds his fist in the air, and Carl bumps it with his own.

 

In the end, he realizes that with Ian he didn’t get to choose, he had already fallen in love before he could even stop it.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

As Mickey struggles with the dirty mattress that used to belong to someone other than him, or his sister for that matter, a litany of pejoratives leaves his lips in a raging huff.  As he finally lines the damn thing against the wall outside in the hall, he starts replaying Carl’s words; Monica was dead. He admits the boy caught him off guard, Carl can be very unpredictable. But Mickey knows Monica, heard stories of her. She was dead now. She was Carl’s mother but Ian’s as well. She was the mother of Fiona, lip and everyone living in that house.

Yes, she kidnapped Ian once and Mickey isn’t going to censor the word because there was no way Ian was sane enough to think right for himself back then, but she was his mother nonetheless, and he cared for her, in his own way.

His motions come to a slow still. Does Mickey even care, or is he just saying all this to give himself some excuse to go over to the Gallagher’s?

Does he want to go there; he knows he should, give proper condolences and all that, but he doesn’t have to. There’s nothing that connects him to that family anymore, not since Ian called things off.

He spent last night mulling over this alone; just where exactly did he go wrong?

People don’t just wake up from a drunken stupor one day –or sedation- and decide they don’t want to have anything to do with whoever they’re dating anymore. Maybe he was being too nagging, too into Ian’s life or too expressive; but something happened, and now, even after all this time, his heart continues to pay the price.

 

Mickey resumes the lifting, but, yet again, stops abruptly. “Fuck.”

 

 

It feels odd to be walking down this pathway. Last time he did, he was running over to Ian’s after the man’s call, after he’d been gone for almost a week, wandering the States with his mother. So, yes, it feels odd.

The more he approaches the house, the more anxious he gets –it slowly sinks in, he realizes there is  _really_  no reason to go over to the Gallagher’s, not one. He isn’t going to be welcomed for one, maybe will get blamed for what Ian went through and that’s a guilt Mickey isn’t ready to shoulder yet. The hasty pace of his legs slows, before he finally comes to a stop.

As much as he would like to pretend that this is a friendly visit to the family that recently lost a member, he knows it isn’t. All that talk about falling in love last night must have altered his rhythm off the tracks a little, must have fogged his reason, too.

Lifting his chin up for a last look, Mickey is surprised to find more than the empty front lawn. Red locks glimmer under the sun, vivid and rich, his form bulky and full underneath that uniform. EMT, he remembers now.  He also remembers that Ian isn’t single, hasn’t been since Mickey got locked up.

He told Ian to wait for him, he asked him to lie just for his peace of mind but he knew better.

His teeth bite on his bottom lip, and just as slowly, he turns, ready to leave. He manages a few steps, before his name is suddenly being called.

_Bulkier arms wrap around him, securing him from the things he always feared to speak aloud. Emerald green eyes look back into his, brilliant and emotion-charged, looking at him alone. Words of love whispered into his ear, words which he never thought he’d receive or exchange, considering his background, and the kind of parenting he had. Words which he never thought would make his cheeks flush. Words which he believed, because there was no reason he shouldn’t._

Mickey closes his eyes against the images, lets out a little scoff before finally turning around.

Ian’s eyes are vibrant, the same they used to be before his lows, they are taking in Mickey’s, and he sees how they even tremble.

“Mick,” he repeats, “What’re you doing here?”

Said man scratches at his stubble a little; he’s been thinking about all this, but he never stopped to think what he might say if he did come across this guy.

“Heard about Monica,” he says in his husky drawl, “Came to say hi.”

Ian’s freckles are even more visible with the radiant sun above. “Yeah?” he starts, “why were you leaving then?”

Mickey does that nonchalant press of his lips and shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

Ian considers that for a beat. His eyes flick to the shorter man’s ankle, probably looking for a monitor. He looks up when he doesn’t discern one. “They let you out?”

Mickey nods, his eyes wandering around when an old black Volvo zooms past them.

“That’s good, Mick,” Ian comments. “You back in the house?”

“For now,” he says, squinting at their surroundings.

Ian eyes him more and takes a step forward, shortening the distance between them. Mickey twirls his tongue over his eyetooth to stop from saying or doing something unnecessary.

“Mickey –”

Mickey knows what the man wants to say and, for the life of him, he can’t, isn’t ready to hear it yet, so he lifts his hand up to stall whatever was forthcoming. “Save it, Gallagher.” He smirks, playfully. “Gotta run to the store, man, need more supplies.”

The faint quiver of Ian’s brows makes him breathe out a small sigh.

“You okay?” Mickey quickly explains what he’s asking about; he came here to give his ‘condolences’  but he’s done none of it, it’s only logical now that he makes it seem like that’s what this is all about. “I mean –your mom.”

“Um, yeah, yeah” he says, his nasal voice deepening, “better.”

“Good, I’ll catch you later,” Mickey says, and tacks on “you look good.”

Ian’s nod is faltering. “Y-you too, your hair…”

Instead of any derogatory bite in his comment, Mickey only hears unaffected sincerity, which makes him smile in that serene, gentle way, before leaving entirely.

 

 

Sitting at his porch and appreciating the dusky hues over the South Side sky, Mickey is soon joined by Carl again. Mickey didn’t expect the young man’s visit to become regular, but he guesses that even he can use some company now and then. Besides, two times in a row doesn’t make it regular.

“Hey,” the boy mutters, dropping a couple of plastic bags beside Mickey’s feet before sitting down next to him.

Mickey takes the cigarette out of his lips to return the greeting, nodding as he watches the abundant smoke soaring up in the air.

“You’re still by yourself?” Carl cranes his neck to look through the door left ajar.

“Enjoying the freedom,” Mickey scoffs. He doesn’t expect the boy to understand the connotation behind that one.

“I thought you might still be taking time to get back on your feet, so” –Carl rummages through the plastic, making loud scratchy noises– “brought dinner.”

“I don’t need your fucking charity.” He says, oddly calmly.

Carl doesn’t act offended, he barks a laugh instead. “Cooked it myself, dumbass. I’ve been doing a lot of cooking lately.” He says, “You’re gonna love the shit out of it.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he takes another drag, making the embers of his cigarette glow.

“I’m putting everything in the fridge then,” Carl says, lifting up and slipping inside the house. It doesn’t take long for him to gush on about whatever he’s stumbling on. Finally outside and on the step, Carl carries on with his comments. “Dude, what happened to your house?”

“I’m making a few changes.” Mickey elaborates, “It’s not done yet so place looks like a fucking salvage.”

“I’m off this summer, you need any help?”

Mickey waves a dismissive hand. “It’s just paint work.”

Carl nods. “Cool, you changing colors or something?”

“Or something,” Mickey hacks a small chuckle. “You’re staying out of trouble?” He figures that if Carl is showing some social maturity, then so can he.

“Gonna sell the meth Monica left as inheritance.” Carl says, conversationally.

“Shit,” Mickey’s brows contort, and he can’t help but hack a laugh. “Talk about a family heirloom.”

“Yeah,” Carl laughs, now pressing forward to pick the beer bottle between Mickey’s feet. “I was thinking of buying a Jacuzzi. It’d be great for winter.”

“No shit,” Mickey agrees.

“I’d spend the money on my girlfriend if I had one.”

Mickey elbows him slightly. “Hey, you’re gonna find one. You’re gonna fall in love, you gonna buy her flowers and she gonna fucking love it. Bitch might get knocked up, but, who cares, you gonna marry her in the end.”

Carl’s grin is wide his rows of teeth are showing. “I like the sound’ that.”

“Then you gonna realize you made the worst fucking mistake of your life.” Mickey jokes.

He receives a light punch to his thigh. “Screw you,” Carl laughs at his joke nonetheless. “You’re seeing your son?” he suddenly asks.

The smile on Mickey’s lips falls. “Nope,” he rubs at his nape. “Need to finish working on the house first. I’m making these changes for him as well.”

Carl nods in acknowledgment. “I heard your ex-wife conned her way to get Kev and V to give up the Alibi.”

“She did?” Mickey’s voice almost cracks. “That’s a tough Russian bitch.”

Carl agrees wholeheartedly. “You gonna keep the hair, though?”

“Told you, going for new,” Mickey whines, “Jesus, you and your brother!”

“Ian?” Carl demands, “You guys met?”

Mickey rolls his tongue inside his cheek, “Yeah,” he eventually admits, much calmer, “went to your house this morning to say hi, bumped into him on the way.”

“Cool,” he says.

“He didn’t look like he was off his fucking rockets, either.” Mickey feels the need to add. “The most stable he’s been in years, if I may add.”

Carl gives him a half-hearted shrug, “Do you want me to deny?”

Narrowing his eyes at the boy, Mickey realizes what other implications his remark might have conveyed and it disturbs even him. “No, Carl, that’s not what I’m saying.” He said, resigned. “I was surprised, s all. Last I saw of him, he was heavily sedated with meds, could barely follow on whatever shit chat I was blabbing on about.”

“He’s been taking his meds daily, never skipping or flushing.” Carl explains. “Hey, Mickey,” he looks up into the man’s eyes, his own serious. “Was Sammie the reason you went to prison?”

“She mouthed off that I tried to kill her for informing MP’s on Ian,” He says, “Bitch wasn’t wrong.”

Carl beholds him like there’s a mystery slowly unraveling before him.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Mickey snaps.

Shaking his head, Carl faces away, looking at the light pole which suddenly lightens up. “Nothing,” levering up, he adds, “I should go.”

Mickey nods. He already finished his cigarette, the beer bottle was half empty and he had no other reason to linger outside.

“Good night,” Carl turns to leave.

“Thanks” Mickey suddenly blurts out. He scratches at his temple when Carl stares at him, “for the food.”

Carl smiles amiably and leaves.

 

 

He’s halfway through placing a round mirror, which used to belong behind the door of his bedroom, on the light-salmon-colored wall when he hears a knock, before two pairs of footsteps march into his house. Mickey vacates his sister’s room, meeting Carl and Ian in the living room, dressed in sweat-soaked jogging wears.

“Hey,” he says in something between a scoff and a surprised exclamation. “What brought you two here?”

Carl shows him another bag. “You know how they say your body will be screaming for replenishment post-run?”

Mickey quirks up a smile, his eyes looking from one brother to the other, “Yeah?”

“Well, I could really eat a horse right now.” He finally moves on to the kitchen, placing his purchases on the counter. “Couldn’t wait till we got home, yours was nearer.”

Mickey tousles his hair a little; thinking of the work that’s still waiting for him is making him crave some food too. “Alright,” he breathes out, “only if you share.”

Carl’s eyes glint mischievously. “Have at it.”

Ian’s hand is soon on Mickey’s elbow, keeping him from walking away. The raven-haired whips his head around, brows furrowing at the hand.

“I–” Ian takes his hand back just as quickly. “Couldn’t help but notice all the changes.”

As the input sinks home, Mickey finally deciphers what his ex is trying to say. His taut form relaxes, and he wraps his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you can. It’s still going pretty slowly. I think I can make it though, already finished my room and Mandy’s.”

Ian’s eyes widen a little. “You changed yours?”

Mickey motions with his head, “come on” he says on a smile, “let me show you.” Saying so, he leads him into Mandy’s room first. “Was gonna paint it black, just like her soul” –Ian chuckles at that– “But decided she needed something different. Even drew damn patterns on the corners.”

Ian is already shaking his head, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Don’t think she gonna like those, man. You should’ve gone for skulls.”

“She ain’t an amped-up teenage girl anymore,” Mickey points at the paintings and the new white drapes, “She even has her own fucking bathroom. She gonna fucking love it. She’d better. I put a lot of work on to this.”

Ian reels to face him. “You could have called, I’d have helped.”

Mickey is already sauntering out of the room, ignoring Ian’s green eyes. “Nah,” he says, “I can do this by myself.”

Besides, he knows that both of them know that that’s something was and can never happen; he can’t just roll fresh out of prison, call his ex to help renovate the house they used to share. It doesn’t work like that. Ian is just being sociable.

“I was gonna paint mine red, can you believe it?” He marvels as he walks past the kitchen, where Carl is devouring his food and who mumbles ‘cool’ on a mouthful. Opening the door and surging in followed by Ian, Mickey adds “I settled for this instead.”

Ian stands there, scrutinizing every corner and every flat surface inside this room. No more posters, no more garbage piling up everywhere or old lamps occupying every nook. It looks vast, clean and warm.

“What’ ya think?”

Ian attempts to sigh but aborts the action. “Doesn’t look like you.”

Mickey ruffles his long strands; it’s really becoming a habit at this point. “Yeah? No more Sniper or nameless Ukrainian rock bands posters, no more dart boards on my walls and no more shit on my headboard, I call that an improvement.” Mickey winks up at the other. “I’m not nineteen anymore, you need to understand that.”

The ginger’s stare becomes a little patronizing. “You used to take pride in that.”

“I’m doing this for my family.” Mickey finally reveals. “I can’t stay the same person and expect my life to change.”

Ian walks up to him, soles harsh on the panel. “When are you ever going to do things for yourself, Mick?”

“Stop.” Mickey bites out.

Ian charges on despite the other man’s growl. “When the fuck are you ever gonna be selfish?”

Mickey almost loses himself in Ian’s eyes again; in this room, on that bed, they used to be more than Mickey had ever allowed himself to be with someone. He’s done that. Shared his life with another person, cared and laughed with him.  Right in this very room. So, yes,  _almost_. But he doesn’t. His glare becomes furious. “For myself, oh, I did that,” he sounds cheerful but they both know he’s far from it, “I did that when I was with you.” He seethes, “I allowed myself to be with someone else, I allowed myself to be happier a little, but you know what happened?”

Ian’s gaze is already faltering.

Mickey’s eyes remain furious, however. “You took it all away, Ian.” He scoffs, “you have no right to preach at me now, absolutely none.”

“Mick…” Ian’s voice is lower than the sharp edge it was a minute ago.

“Enough.” Mickey cuts him off. Rather than enraged, he sounds defeated. “You don’t get to tell me how or what’s good for me. I’m not like you. I accept people for what they are, for who they are.” Saying so, he storms past him, knocking their shoulders, just to drive his point home, before heading towards the kitchen.

Carl looks up with concern, and Mickey waves him off. They watch as Ian stomps past them, making his way towards the front door.

“Hey, Ian, wait up!” Carl is already collecting his baseball hat and rushing after his brother, while yelling ‘sorry Mickey’ over his shoulder.

 

 

The light streaming from the front door provides enough illumination for him to read the book he’s found in one of Mandy’s drawers. It must have been assigned to her back in school; she didn’t throw it away which tells Mickey that a part of her wished to finish her studies. With his cigarette between his fingers, his beer providing comfort at his side and the dusk breeze brushing his locks ad rustling the trees, he believes this night can’t get any better.

Carl doesn’t show up at all, and Mickey is surprised at himself for missing the brat a little; not that he is going to admit this aloud to any soul. Well, he must say, the crickets buzzing like phone poles are good enough company for now.

 

The exchange earlier today has given Mickey a lot to think about, and a lot to regret and feel angry about. But he isn’t in the wrong here. Ian needs to grow the fuck up. It’s true that the guy’s always been a romantic little shit, but Mickey has framed it for him over and over: their reality is much harsher than that; his and Mandy’s, and his family’s.

This is probably why he’s always been harsh on Ian and himself.

Mickey allowed his pace to be disturbed once, and he had reveled in it, but reality came back biting him in the ass when he was in prison, counting the days and no one showed up behind the glass to see if he was surviving, if he was fighting because he was.

He might have thought that love and romance were things that added meaning to his life, and he’s grateful to Ian for giving him that experience, he really is, but, like he said, this is where he takes over this bus now.

 

 

He eventually decided to paint the spare room beige, because it’s a neutral color, anybody using it wouldn’t give him ammunition for having no sense of interior design. It was the easiest to work on out of the three rooms, just take the stuff out, scrub the old paint off and paint it anew. He isn’t going to paint the living room or the kitchen, that’s a lot of work. Besides, the couple of paint cans left are barely going to be enough for the doors and the windows, and he can’t afford to buy more. He can’t do much about the sandstone font of the house, but he can paint the handrails.

 

It’s almost five, and, from the window, he can see the sun sinking, but barely. He might have to skip sky-gazing this time if he is to finish the rest today.

 

With no carpet on the floor, Mickey vacuums all the rooms, including the kitchen.  He’s already washed the two bathrooms’ tile flooring. He couldn’t damage the wood here, hence the vacuuming. He doesn’t notice the other person creeping up on him until a hand taps at his shoulder. Startled, Mickey swivels around like he was slapped with a fish.

“Fuck, man, give a guy a warning before you decide to give him a heart attack!” he gripes, looking away from Lip and turning the vacuum off.

“Well, that’s the whole point.”

Mickey flips him off.

“I heard you went domestic, came to see.” He says as he eyes the place and then Mickey’s hair. “Nice ponytail by the way.” Lip is already flashing a sneer.

With a click of his lips, Mickey walks away to store the vacuum in a closet, “You guys sleep on it or something, gossip like a bunch of scout girls, is that it?”

Lip denies. “Ian is going loco again. I knew it had to do with you the moment Carl blurted out your name.”

Mickey stands there with his hands by his sides, ready for it, the accusation. “So?”

“Listen, man, Ian’s been through hell, and he’s finally pulled himself together;” He starts, and almost deters at Mickey’s smirk. “You need to lay low.”

Nibbling at his bottom lip, Mickey demurs but eventually nods. In any other day, he’d have raised hell for being threatened by some college boy, but he realizes that with his decision, new sacrifices have to be made. “Before you go accusing people of shit in your head, double-check with your victim of a brother first. I’m not here to cause anybody any trouble, Lip. I’ve had my share. I just want people to leave me the fuck alone.”

Lip nods. “Fair enough,” they are on the same page here then. “I appreciate it.”

As Mickey returns to the bucket and the cloth waiting for him, Lip chirps behind him.

“You might want to add vinegar on that, works better on wood floors.”

“Go home, Lip.” Mickey grouses, but eventually pours vinegar in the bucket because the genius of the neighborhood said so.

 

Every bone in his body hurts, and every muscle in his joints aches. He’s been pulling, pushing and dragging stuff for the entirety of the week, and he doesn’t think his body can take any more of that. Luckily, however, there really isn’t much work left to be done expect make a few purchases.

In the silence of the night, Mickey lolls his head on his pillow, scenting in the sun-kissed sheets and the cheap detergent. For the first time, it hits him like a wave: how alone he is in this house. He knows he said he wanted this for himself, for a little while longer, but the bubbling excitement to have his family together is gifting him with another sleepless night.

This doesn’t help take his mind off Lip barging into his house and threatening that he leaves his brother alone.

Mickey moans as he curls on his side. Nothing really has changed; a year and a half still can’t change that much about people.

He knows what the Gallaghers think of him; somehow they’ve made it a belief that Mickey is toxic to Ian, and that with each other, they can only continue to bring each other pain. It might be the case, but they still worked. He and Ian had their issues, but who didn’t, who doesn’t. Bottom line is, they still fucking made it work.

Groaning, Mickey sits up. He leans towards the first drawer of the nightstand, pulling out Ian’s picture. This isn’t the answer, and he knows. Heck, he should know better than anyone. But a part of him yearns for this. And he doesn’t think he can continue to ignore that part forever.

He will get over Ian eventually; it might be a process but it will happen, eventually.

 

 

The call connects after a few rings, and Mandy’s voice is joyous through the phone.

“How come you’re using your phone?”

Mickey rolls his eye. “I’m out of the can, skank. You free now?”

“Yeah, I’ll come meet you.” Mandy gushes. “Where are you?”

 

It’s been a while since he sat down and enjoyed a place like this with whatever shitty jazz music playing in the background, masking the clink of dishes and the muffled shatter of dinners. He still prefers his privacy more so Mandy isn’t surprised when she walks into the diner, dressed in a floral mini dress, and finds her brother in the corner booth.

Mickey gladdens at the sight of her arrival, and lifts up to greet her. As she throws her arms around him, he can’t help but squeeze her a little more than he usually allows himself to.

“You finally decide to show your mug, huh?” He berates as he pulls away.

“I missed you too, a-hole.” She seats herself across from him. “When did you get out?”

He leans back and smiles up at her. “Last week.”

“A week!” She gasps. “Were you ever going to tell me, ass clown?”

“I am now.” He grins. “Had to take care of some stuff first, you know.”

“What’s up with your hair?”

“As if you’re one to talk” He snorts on a smile, which she returns.

As the waiter interrupts to take Mandy’s order, Mickey seizes her distraction to sip his own coffee. The blonde waiter skids away, leaving them to their talk.

“So, how’ve ya been?” She sounds lively, and she looks healthy, and that’s messed up because he knows what kind of job she’s doing.

“Staying out of trouble,” he admits, and it’s the truth. “You look healthy.”

“Expensive restaurants,” She contributes. “Those rich fucks have a lot of money to burn, I exploit it.”

His head is doing faint to and fro motions, his sky-blue eyes peering into hers.

“What?” she hisses.

“Listen, Mands, I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” he starts, and she gives him the cue to go on. “I want you to come back home.”

“Why?”

It’s not to know the answer per se; Mickey sees the question for what it is: a challenge. She’s daring him to give her a valid reason to go back to that house.

“Well, for one, you wanna keep spreading your legs for strangers for a fucking housing? You gonna keep at it until you catch some god-awful disease that will eventually kill you.” He grits out.

“There’s nothing to go back to, Mickey. There’s nothing for me in that house.”

“There’s me, your brother.” He relents. It may have meant something once, but he is doubtful it does now. Yet, he sees the way the tears well up in her eyes. He knows she doesn’t want this for herself either. She needs a push so he presses on. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking, and I know I’ve never been there for you, not the way I should have. You’re my baby sister, Mands, and I want you safe, home, with me.”

She keeps fumbling with the bottle of salt until the waiter comes back with her order.

“At least come take a look; I’ve been making changes around the house.”

That piques her curiosity, and she does look up.

“I promise you’re gonna love it.”

“You think some paint and plaster will change the memories in that house?” She is awfully too cynical for the sister he knows, and that tells him how much she’s been suffering because of this.

“No,” he simply says. “But it’s a start.”

She barks a sudden laugh, “God helps those who help themselves, is that it?”

“More like nothing will change for you unless you change yourself.”

The rest of it is just two siblings reminiscing and enjoying their coffee.

 

Mandy drives them back to the house; she’s gotten cold feet a couple of times before Mickey convinced her that he would be there for her every step of the way.

As they stand there by the jeep, taking in the exterior of the house, Mandy snipes at him that it might not be very different like he hoped it would look. He gives her a hairy eye-roll before ushering to her to follow, which she does when he’s by the front door.

 

“Pink?”

“Salmon,” Mickey corrects, “and don’t you start on me, I almost had fucking aneurysm thinking on this. Even Ian gave me shit about it.”  

Mandy twists her pressed lips in silence, and finally looks away from his blushing cheeks to take in the rest of the room. She finds the door that leads to the newly installed bathroom. “I have a bathroom in my room?”

Mickey lightens up at that, “Yep.”

“When did you do all this?”

“Started second day I was out,” he says.

She beholds him again in that silent way, until he is too uncomfortable to handle it. “I’m just surprised, I think” she says, “My room’s never been this clean, or warm. I was too used to dead men’s skulls.”

“What next, twilight posters?” He scoffs, “fucking unbelievable.”

She scans the room one more time. “It looks… cozy.”

Mickey’s hopeful eyes remain on her.

Heaving a sigh, Mandy marches up to him. She knows he’s anticipating her answer, and she decides not to make him more miserable. “I have to share my apartment with a hoarder and another bitch, who thinks it’s okay to use every pot and pan to create an elaborate meal for a messy dinner party, then leaves the washing-up for a week. I will be more than happy to have my own bathroom in my own bedroom in my own house.”

Laughing, Mickey can’t help but headlock her for making him live through unnecessary anxiety.

“Let go, you retard!” She says through a lively giggle.

“This is for making me grow gray hair.” He squeezes her neck more.

“Too bad you can’t grow balls, dumbass.”

Their antics are interrupted by Carl’s intrusion. “Sorry,” he says as they pause and look up at him. “Knocked but nobody answered, then heard the ruckus.” He lifts the bags in his hand higher. “Dinner, anyone?”

“You aren’t stealing that, are you?” Mickey was seriously starting to grow doubts more than gray hair. He has balls, Mandy can go fuck herself.

“He’s been giving you free food like some kept-in pet?” Mandy’s eyes gleam with the same mischievousness in Carl’s eyes.

“Fuck you,” Mickey drones, walking past them as they properly greet each other.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Putin’s Paradise –what in the world is his ex-wife up to, drawing all this attention to where Mickey knows there are still illegally trafficked Russian prostitutes in the Alibi’s upstairs? Shaking his head sadly, he opens the door and walks in.

There’s a pause blended with indistinct Russian singing where several heads pop up, looking closely at all of him, at his recently shaved cheeks, his hair wrapped in a tiny ponytail, at his jeans, the white top tank under the flannel which sleeves he’s rolled up to the elbows, that he has to grit his teeth not to call them out on it; it’s smart thinking because everyone returns to what they’re doing, rowdy chatter filling the place.

“Oh, it’s jailbird.”

Mickey marches up to the bar counter where he spots Svetlana giving him that nasty glare. “Hey, I need to talk to you.”

“Order first, then talk,” she says with her accent.

He looks up in exasperation before ordering whiskey, a bald guy next to him, whom Mickey has seen and even talked to before, tells him he’d get half-price drinks if he orders in Russian. Mickey snorts at that one.

His ex-wife places a glass in front of him. “So,” she starts, “they send you out or you escaped?”

“Would I be barging in here if I was on the run?” He glares at her skeptical stare, he adds, more to himself “Give me a fucking break.”

“What you want to talk about?” She goes back to the subject. “Just a little warning, you can’t take my prostitutes.”

“You can all fuck each other for all I care, that’s not why I’m here,” he huffs, “I’m here for Yevgeny.”

“What,” she picks a cloth and a glass, doing that typical bartender move where they stand there listening to you complain and pretend they give a shit. “You finally take your head out of your ass?”

“I want to see my son.”

“No.”

He arches a dangerous brow. “What ‘you mean ‘no’?” he grumbles. “He’s my son. I have a right to see him.”

Svetlana shrugs a shoulder. “Big Papa takes care of him now.”

“The fuck is Big Papa?” Mickey isn’t even sure he wants to know.

“Kevin Ball,” She says, “He doesn’t act estranged from him. You can’t do father like him. You fail.”

Mickey is talking through his teeth at this point as he feels his rage coming up.  “Look, I’m not gonna deny that I was a shitty parent back then. But I’m here now. I care about the kid.”

Her piercing stare silences him for a beat, and it lasts for a few more prolonged seconds before she speaks again. “He visits on weekend. Baby needs mother more. He won’t stay with a piece of shit queer like you.”

Mickey licks his bottom lip and bites on it; she wants to make it personal, fine. “So what, you gonna start acting all high and mighty ‘cause you own the damn Alibi now, like you didn’t do shit in your life?”

She hums. “Don’t brood, rainbow boy.” She says, “Baby could be yours, yes, could also not be yours.”

“What the fuck, Svetlana?” Mickey roars. “You don’t just throw that bomb and expect me to play along, are you positive it’s mine or not?”

“I do shit in life too,” She puts the glass in a rack. “That’s why don’t brood. You can still see him.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Mickey groans. “This is so messed up” that the baby could also be his brother, or some stranger fuck’s kid. “Just, bring him over, okay?”

The Russian woman wiggles her fingers at him to wave goodbye as he storms out of the barroom. She picks the glass of untouched bourbon and chugs all of it down in one large gulp.

 

 

Mandy calls him on his way back, asking him to come to the complex building in the address she sends him next in a text. He argued with her that he wasn’t her handyman, but deep down delighted at the idea of finally helping Mandy out of there and into their house.

Mickey stands there in front of a random shop down the arcade, trying to read off the address despite the radiant sun when, to his surprise, his name is called out again. He looks up, and then to his side, finding an ambulance slowly grooving at the sidewalk.

He doesn’t know if playing this game will keep Ian off his back; Mickey could do with no shitty reminders, but this isn’t what they’re supposed to be. They didn’t part ways on the premise that they stay friends. Mickey was dumped when he was at his best, showing love and care that, obviously, wasn’t enough to the man who’s looking out the window of the passenger’s seat of the van, and beaming at him like the past year and a half didn’t happen.

Carl has shown him more social maturity than any grown-up ever has, and Mickey decides to act on that until he figures out how to tell the ginger to stay the fuck out of his life.

Mickey approaches the vehicle when it finally stops beside the curbs, stands by the door and jacks his neck up. “Hey, what’s up?”

Ian’s arms are crossed over the window sill as he looks down. “Just stopping for a quick snack” –his female partner empties the vehicle and walks into one of the stores Mickey was standing next to earlier– “What’ you doing?”

“Was at the Alibi,” Mickey provides. “Not much of it left, if you ask me.”

Ian gives that disheartened nod. “I heard what happened,” he says, “Kev and V are not gonna let it slide.”

Mickey’s perfect brow goes up swiftly, “let’s hope.” He says, “If I have to listen to Red Army parades again, I’m gonna shoot myself in the head.”

Ian bursts with a bouncy chuckle. “You’ve seen her?”

Mickey chews on his lip again; he does that when there’s something he’s not sure he should bring up either because it might not be right or simply because it’s none of anybody’s fucking business. He would like to think that this is none of Ian’s concern. But when Mickey acted like he couldn’t stand the sight of the baby, it was Ian who genuinely channeled his affection to Yevgeny without asking anything in return.

“I asked her to bring Yevgeny home.”

Ian’s silence allows him to give structure on that one.

“I want to be involved, you know, want to be in his life more now.” He absently scratches at his cheek. “Guess I just wanna play dad.”

“What did she say?”

Mickey scoffs humorlessly. “A lot of shit I didn’t need to hear, that’s what.”

“She’s gonna let you see him, though, right?”

Mickey nods, his eyes flicking somewhere else, on anything but the brilliance reflected in those green orbs.

The phone in his hand chirps again, and he can see that even Ian is scowling at the screen to determine the sender. Realizing that Mandy is becoming more and more livid waiting for him to carry her baggage, Mickey decides he still wants his balls where they are, thank you very much.

“I should get going,” he says, “gotta run some errands.”

Ian nods.

Mickey takes a step away; he hasn’t left Ian’s space of gravity where he feels like he can’t breathe yet, but he can think clearer now. “Go save the day, Freckles.”

Ian’s smile morphs into a full-fledged grin.

 

 

“You guys never heard of dish soap?”

Mandy follows where her brother is staring at the mountains of dirty dishes. “I know,” for once, she doesn’t snap at his comment. “This is only strengthening my resolve to leave this shithole.”

“No argument there.” Mickey huffs.

She motions to her room. “I’m throwing out a lot of useless stuff,” she starts, showing Mickey into the room. There’s a small bed in the corner, one lamp on the floor, a wall closet and a couch. “So there isn’t much baggage to carry.”

“You have a fucking couch?”

Mandy also stares at the said three-seater couch. “It was a gift from one of my clients, brand new too.” She goes up to it. “I don’t use it much to be honest.”

“Shit, let’s take it.” He explains when she shows that blank stare. “I’ve been dying to throw the one back at home, it fucking stinks. But I’m low on cash, and this here is a godsend.”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” She finally agrees.

“Wait,” a sneer tags at the corner of his lips, “I’m not gonna accidentally sit on a fucking dildo if I try it?”

She rolls her eyes, annoyed, “You’d fucking love it anyway.”

 

The jeep’s entire formation creaks as the car makes it way to the Milkovich household. They placed the new couch over the hood, and the rest of Mandy’s bags in the trunk. Mickey is now relaxing in his seat as Mandy turns the wheel with a lot of ease.

“You talked to Iggy?”

That’s what she opens with? Mickey wants to laugh, but he’s too spent from carrying heavy furniture for an entire fucking week. “No,” he says, “Haven’t talked to anyone. Not planning to anytime soon.”

“He has a fiancée.”

Okay, that forces the laughter out of him. “The things you learn about a guy,” he mutters to himself before tacking on, “did he knock her up or something?”

“Alright, we do have a track of forced marriages a-cause-de unplanned pregnancy, but trust me when I say that this time it’s not really the case,” she looks closely at the road ahead as she does her brother. “Iggy found someone he loves, and they’re getting married in autumn. They’re living at her father’s.”

“Good for him,” he simply says.

“I guess not everyone has a Terry in their family, huh?”

He gulps; he knows the insinuation isn’t meant about him and his dad dragging him through hell for being gay, but, he doesn’t know, maybe it’s the byproduct of years of stifling that insecurity in and hoping that it doesn’t make him finally crumble. He looks fleetingly over his lap before facing the windshield.

“He’s history.”

“Is he?” Mandy goads, more emotions making her eyes tremble. “He shows up in my dreams, Mickey, that fucker is there whether I want to admit it or not.”

Mickey is quick to console his baby sister. “Hey, you can’t let him destroy you, alright?” he beseeches. “Yeah, it fucking sucks that a guy like him was in our life for that long, but he’s out. He isn’t gonna bother us ever again.”

That seems to slowly do the trick in calming her; she sniffles and nods in agreement.

 

 

They were right: you could really do it if you set your mind to.

As Mickey sits on the stairs, listening at the buzzing insects in the trees and the echoing childish laughter, with a beer in a hand and Mandy’s book in the other, it dawns on him that the house is finally redone, his sister is in her room tidying or whatever, and his son will come visit this upcoming weekend. Things are looking up.

He drinks to that.

 

The door creaks open, Mandy shows up, dressed in the same red skirt and black top from this afternoon, she sits beside him and picks the pack of cigarette and the disposable lighter sitting behind Mickey’s back. She lights it and takes a long drag, finally blowing it out in spurts of copious smoke.

“So,” she starts, “what now?”

He shrugs while shaking his head; he’s already placed the book at his side so he can have some quality time with his sister. “I’ll start job hunting soon,” he replies.

“I’ll leave mine.”

“I support that.”

“But, Mickey, it’s not as easy as you might think,” she says, her arm hugging her knees together. “I didn’t just start out of nowhere, I have a patron. He’s not going to be very pleased.”

“He will be if my fist goes through his teeth.” Nobody owns his sister.

“I don’t think it’s that cut and dry,” she isn’t very optimistic. “I’ll talk to him first, but if he gets too much, I’ll call you.”

As she watches him drink his beer in peace, movement beyond their fence stops her from whatever she’s been dying to ask.

Carl shows up again, his hands in his pockets.

“Aren’t you going to feed your cat today?” Mandy taunts.

Mickey beside her swipes faintly at her hair, ignores her whining, and looks up at the boy. “You gonna reclaim your throne before I bury my sister here alive?”

Mandy acts offended even though she isn’t.

Carl flashes his smile before nearing them and leaning on the recently-painted handrail. “No, sorry.” He says, dejectedly, “I have to be home soon.”

“You ate anything yet?” Surprisingly, it’s Mickey who asks. “There’s still food in the fridge, help yourself.”

Carl is already shaking his head.

“What’s going on, Carl?” Mandy coaxes.

“Just tired, day’s been too eventful, even for me.”

Mickey agrees. “Tell me about it.”

Carl spends the next half an hour or so recounting his heroic stories back in Military School, and the siblings take turns calling bull on each one of them.

 

 

 

There’s a knock on the door of his bedroom, followed by Mandy’s muffled voice telling him that she already made breakfast and that she is now going out to find a job.

Mickey groans as he slowly sits up; he smells bacon. With his fingers grazing at his scalp, Mickey makes his way to the bathroom to wash up.

 

Now that the bacon is in his stomach, Mickey flumps on the new couch, which no longer faces the room but the window instead, Mandy’s laptop tucked at his side. There’s still some money left but it’s not going to last them long, hence the decision to make use of this for something other than checking muscular guys’ cocks.

With his sister finally home, safe and sound, Mickey finally had a good night’s sleep which didn’t really offer the chance to contemplate his impromptu face-to-face meetings with a certain redhead. It’s something he’s grown into a habit, beside other things.

He doesn’t want to keep pretending to be chummy with Ian every time the dude greets him in that cheerful way, he doesn’t. Ian hurt him a lot. And there’s no going about to deny this long-standing fact. Maybe it was both ways, but Mickey trusts he’s given his all to be there for Ian, and it hurts, to know that what finally managed to separate them was him loving Ian too much.

He needs a job for the money.

He needs it to get his mind off this.

 

He contacts a few bars and clubs who are requesting security guys with no experience needed, leaves them his number if they decided to give him a chance.

 

With that much free time in his hands, Mickey decides to borrow a lawn mower from his next door neighbors. The grass has collected a lot of junk which draws every swarm of mosquitoes in the State to his door. He is done a few minutes later since the garden isn’t too big, and hands the machine back to its chubby middle-aged owner who kept standing there waiting for him to finish so he could take it back home.

 

Mandy shows up when he’s in the kitchen reheating last night’s lasagna in the oven.

“Hey,” she starts, “good mowing job.”

He goes back to the couch to finish the TV program he got engrossed in. “Yeah? Thanks.” He says, “Hey, how did it go with the patron?”

Mandy has gone into her room but hasn’t closed the door. She speaks up when she answers. “He tried to threaten me, but I told him that my big brother was fresh out of prison and didn’t mind going back in for me.”

“Way to go, Mands!” He praises, good-naturedly. He can hear the water running in her bathroom, a bout of pride buzzes through him.

 

Mandy shows up later wearing comfy shorts and a plain t, her hair wrapped into a messy bun. She drops beside him and places her phone and a bottle of black nail polish on the table.

He knew it; he should have painted her room black.

“Any luck landing a job?” she asks.

“Sent a few applications, gonna wait until tomorrow for them to reply. You?”

“I found an empty spot in a bowling alley, and another at a diner.”

As she resumes the art of coating her nails in black goo, Mickey can’t help but wonder.

“Don’t you want to go back to school?”

She whips her head to face him, and he’s surprised she didn’t snap a muscle. “Are you serious,” she marvels, “there’s no fucking way, Mickey. I’m not going back there.”

“Alright, Jesus, it’s like I asked you to walk up the guillotine or something.” He waves the remote in his hand. “Go back to whatever the fuck you were doing and chill the fuck out.”

To spite him, Mandy glares at the TV to look for a comeback. “Go back to drooling over six-packs and seven-inches which you can never have.” She grits out after two male, alpha-looking guys show up on the screen, pulling truck tires.

After a pregnant pause, Mickey speaks again.

“By the way, no more bringing home strays.”

She glares and cocks her head. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“So you’re going to deprive me of something so humanly necessary because you aren’t getting any?”

“First of all, fuck you,” he starts with his voice calm despite the topic. “Second, what I’m trying to say is that you don’t bring anybody home unless it’s serious. We can’t just allow strangers in and out of our life, Mands. We deserve better.”

As much as Mandy would like to quarrel about this because she’s a woman and she has needs, she can see how much Mickey is trying to make this little family project work, and she only gives him the reprieve for now because he’s been through a lot.

“I have a boyfriend.” Mandy conveys the reveal with the same calm of her brother. “We recently started dating, so it’s nothing serious, yet.”

“When is it ever?”

She still takes the time to punch him on the arm. “At least I have one.”

Their eyes meet, but it’s Mickey who quickly breaks the eye contact.

“Yeah, well, I happen to think that’s a waste of time.” He says, returning his attention to the TV and the robust guys he believes are a real feast to his eyes.

Mandy shuffles closer to him, her elbows on the backrest of the couch. “Do you really think that?”

He shrugs. “I can’t do boyfriends, Mands, not with my looks, not with my background and certainly not in this fucking neighborhood.”

“You did boyfriends with Ian.” She reminds, quietly.

He lets out a deprecating puff again. “Look how that turned out.”

“So what, are you just going to stop dating until your sacks dry off, that’s it?”

He reels around to face her. “A guy like me can’t date, can’t go around fucking yapping about having a boyfriend. I gave it a try, it didn’t work. It’s never gonna.”

Mandy somehow takes that personally. “Who gives a shit if you’re a thug, Mickey? You had something with Ian, you two worked; with his psychotic breaks and your transition from a bloody-headed pimp to a caring lover, you somehow made it work.”

He knows, God, he knows. “It doesn’t fucking mean anything, alright?” Mickey is slowly starting to become defensive, and the more defensive he gets, the more vicious her attacks are.

“It does!” Mandy shoots to her legs; all that rage at his defeated attitude wanting to erupt somehow. “Amongst all of us, you and Ian were the only ones who stuck around. You love him, Mickey.”

“What’ you want me to do about it, huh?” He lifts up as well, TV going ignored. “Want me to give a fuck, open up on the off-chance he doesn’t stomp all over me again. It’s not fucking happening.”

As the front door opens, Mandy, admitting her defeat in a very traditional butt-hurt fashion, picks her phone and stomps into her room, slamming the door at her brother’s face after growling ‘three years later, and you’re still a fucking pussy’.

Mickey tries to regain his composure from the outburst so he doesn’t look or act weird in front of whoever decided to drop by unannounced.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

“Hey,”

Mickey looks up, finding Ian stepping in, still dressed in his uniform: blue EMT shirt, marine blue trousers and black armor boots. “I was gonna knock, but I heard Mandy yell,” he says, “Sorry. She okay?”

Mickey twists his tongue inside his mouth, action firm. “The fuck shall I know?” he rumbles, making his way to the oven. “It must be PMS or something.”

Ian follows him to the kitchen, his steps almost calculated. “Then, are you okay?”

“I’m freaking fantastic.” Mickey mutters, takes the casserole out of the oven and sets it on the counter. With his arms braced on the edge of the said counter, Mickey lowers his head to take a moment… there’s just so much that he shared with this man and just thinking about it makes him want to yield in.

“Why are you here, Ian?” He is secretly taken aback by how steady his voice sounds.

“Mandy called an hour ago, asked me to come over.”

Mickey rubs at his eye and forehead before finally turning around. “You had dinner yet?”

Ian shakes his head.

“Help me set the table,” Mickey orders as he points at the table outside the kitchen; he’s too worn out to even argue anymore.

Ian follows on the instruction given like a soldier called for duty; but that falls under the same heading since the redhead did join the army for a while.

As they sit there in complete silence with the casserole in the middle of the table along with three plates rounding it, Ian takes in the way Mickey is playing with his food and flinging his eyes to Mandy’s door intermittently, Ian finally offers to ask Mandy if she wants to join in.

 

 

“So we go after the callout, we find the dude’s leg twisted so high up that his foot was touching his head.” This is the second horror story Ian is recounting as they eat dinner all the three of them together.

Mandy makes that cracking snicker and shares a laugh with Ian after she tells him the ‘dude’ could still use his leg as a crane.

“Jesus fuck, can I eat in peace, please?” Mickey motions at his half empty plate. “No more horror stories, too. You two either talk about something else or shut the fuck up.”

Mandy stills giggles and only quiets down when Ian does.

“Anyway,” she spins the fork around nonchalantly. “It’s good that you found a job you’re content with.”

Ian nods in agreement. “It wasn’t easy at first, but it’s working out so far so good. What about you, you still in that business?”

“No, I’m not.” She takes another mouthful. “Mickey talked me out of it. So I took an offer down at a diner instead, we’ll see how it goes.”

“Great,” Ian gushes. “I’ll bring my friends there when you’re official.”

Mickey is listening to their conversation, finally satisfied that the threat to throw up has been avoided.

“When you say friends, does that include your boyfriend, too?”

Mandy can see how her brother and Ian stop chewing for a beat, before Ian clears his throat and Mickey resumes chewing again, keeping his eyes on his plate.

“Um, no, no, not if you want me to,” He gives a stutter-y chuckle.

“Sure thing, silly.” Mandy’s squeal brings Mickey out of his silent musings as she tells Ian that she’d make sure the two enjoy themselves; Mickey lifts his plate and places it in the sink.

Their conversation stops there as their eyes follow what Mickey is doing.

“I did the dishes last night, your turn now.” He tells his sister, now making his way out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” She demands.

“Bed.” He drawls.

 

 

He doesn’t remember going into his bathroom and brushing his teeth, it somehow feels like a dream, but he did it. He doesn’t remember changing into his gray sweatpants and top tank either, but he also did it. Standing by the window now with a cigarette between his lips, Mickey looks out and lets the nightly summer breeze smooth over his face. He also doesn’t want his room to smell too strongly of stagnant smoke odor, so his decision to smoke by the window is the wisest he’s made today.

He knows his sister wasn’t trying to get at him for whatever transpired earlier, despite her evil approach in life, but Mickey can’t help but feel like that was also directed at him.

In the silence, he is caught off guard by the gentle swishing music the tree leaves make as they rustle, the only thing that manages to interrupt that melody is the knock on his door.

“The fuck you wanna annoy me with this time, wench?” Mickey assumes it’s his sister checking in on him after what happened, where he believes he acted like a sulking teenager, but he finds that he’s wrong.

The door opens, and the slow moan of its hinges disturbs Mickey’s peace to no end.

“Mickey”

Mickey’s heart drops to his stomach. How much of an obtuse does Ian insist on being, really? This is becoming ridiculous.

“What do you want?” He hears Ian’s footsteps approaching his back, and he resists the urge to turn and face him.

“Mick, I’m sorry.”

Mickey’s chortle then is solemn, “For what, exactly?”

“After Monica’s death, Frank now is going on about wanting to make amends.” He starts, “Crazy, huh? I mean it’s Frank, it’s going to take him the next decade. But it still got me thinking –about how much I hurt you.”

Against himself, Mickey takes another drag of his cigarette. He breathes out smoke.

Ian takes a few other steps until he is only one stride’s length away from Mickey’s back. “I’m sorry, for taking you for granted–”

He can’t. God, Mickey can’t do this now. He isn’t ready. He feels the tears swim in his eyes and he hates himself even more, he hates what and how weird Ian makes him. But he can’t do this tonight. “Ian, stop.” He says, and he isn’t surprised that he sounds too broken to speak. “Get out.”

“I’m sorry for refusing you. I’m sorry for making you feel like–”

“Leave.” Mickey pleads, “Just leave.”

“Mickey,” Ian’s own silent plea sounds broken too, “please…”

But Mickey remains quiet, finishing his cigarette until Ian mutters ‘good night, Mick’ and vacates his room.

 

 

It’s like yesterday’s morning recurs again, with Mandy knocking on his door and telling him breakfast is ready and that she will go to work, before finally leaving him to his own devices.

 

Mickey is washing his and his sister’s dishes when someone pounds on the front door. Barefooted, he stomps with a hand fisted so he’d punch whoever is aggravating his migraine in the early morning. He yanks the door open, and there they are, Svetlana and who used to be a crawling baby but now isn’t.

She steps in, pushing him out of her way. “I have work. Yevgeny stays until I come back.” She places the toddler on the couch, along with his bag and toys. “He naps at noon. You can give him any food, he loves pizza.”

He listens intently at what she is saying, and doesn’t bother to toss in a ‘don’t boss me’. She is the mother of that kid, after all.

“I come back at two. I take the baby, understand?”

“Works for me,” He tells her.

“Call me if you kill him, so I can erase your worthless existence.” She mumbles after glaring at him for an uncomfortable second, now finally taking her leave.

“Jesus, she’s like a fucking storm,” he tells the door.

The kid’s tiny, happy giggle makes him look away and down at the couch. He crouches before the smaller creature, just giving himself and Yevgeny a moment to get reacquainted with each other.

Yevgeny is wearing a striped t-shirt under denim overalls, and red converse shoes. His hair is so golden, and his eyes are clear sea blue. He has got a couple of front teeth, making his smiles even more adorable. He is playing with some kind of monkey toy and momentarily looking up at Mickey with the curiosity of any child his age.

“Hi, little man, it’s me, your father,” and adds as an afterthought, “I think.” He looks around, grumbling about how he is going to pull this off. He’s never been left with something like a baby by himself.

Mickey doesn’t know if this blonde toddler looks like him, and he doesn’t want to delve into any doubts. He isn’t planning on letting them weave a spell on him either.

 

For the first hour, Mickey is still acting a little reserved towards the kid who looks like the only thing he wants from Mickey is to play. Mickey indulges him eventually, coming up with a game where he chases the boy around the house and smiles at the emitted delighted squeaks.

The games go on until Yevgeny starts to pout. One minute they are a happy camp and, he doesn’t know what happens next, but the kid starts getting grumpier, tossing every toy Mickey places in his hands, before he lets out continuous small cries that soon become not so small.

Mickey hears the muttered ‘pizza’ and everything comes together.

“Oh,” He starts, “You must be hungry, right?” He becomes more certain when he orders a pizza on the phone and his kid mimics him with glee in his grin. “Yes!” Mickey releases a victorious meep.

God, he couldn’t take any more of his kid’s crying; his migraine was already getting worse.

 

He takes the ordered pizza at the door, and returns to Yevgeny, who’s on the floor messing with Mickey’s phone which the man only sacrificed to keep him distracted.

“Alright,” Mickey sits beside him and opens the box on the floor. “It’s still hot, so let me just blow on it to–” Yevgeny snatches a piece from the box like he knows what he’s doing better than his grown-up father “–or not.”

 

They soon fall into a snug position with Mickey lying back on the backrest and facing the TV with his PS3 controller in hand, and Yevgeny lying chest-chest on him. Yevgeny sighs against Mickey’s collar as the latter keeps pressing on the keys and muttering angrily at whoever or whatever opponent he’s trying to take down, until the baby’s sighs become prolonged whistle-y snores.

Mickey pauses the game, lifts up, with the utmost stealth he can muster, his hands one framing the back of Yevgeny’ head, and the other behind his back. He goes into his room and cautiously places the toddler in the middle of his bed. He closes the window, before finally exiting the room and leaving the door slightly open.

 

He goes back to finish the rest of the pizza and play another round of Slayer Jack.

 

He hears his son’s small cry half an hour later, Mickey disconnects the call with the club manager who was telling him to come later so they could discuss work, and rushes to his bedroom. He finds that his son has flipped himself so that he is lying on his tummy instead, but he is still crying, not knowing where he woke up alone.

Mickey lifts him gently and hugs him like before, rocking the kid and shushing him soothingly. “It’s okay, buddy,” he whispers, “You’re fine.”

There’s pounding against his door, before Svetlana’s voice raises the storm again.

He walks out and meets her in the hallway. She takes the baby from him. “Grab his things.”

“He napped for, like, an hour and a half,” he says, gathering the toys into the bag. “Just woke up.”

Svetlana takes the bag from him and slips the strap over her shoulder.

Mickey follows her as she heads to the door. “When am I going to see him again?”

“Weekend, that’s the deal.” Following his silence, she stops when she’s outside the door and turns, “earlier if I don’t have busy hours.”

That’s a good deal for Mickey.

 

 

The bus tears from the stop Mickey just came down to, he peers through the cloud of smoke and dust the vehicle left in its wake, gives his surroundings a searching scan before heading towards the location he was given over the phone.  

 

The job interview with the manager went well, give or take; if he can lift over 50 lbs, he can knock out anyone who volunteers to be a source of trouble. His knuckle tattoos, his puffed-out chest and heavy thug attitude, and his schedule flexibility won him the job as a security guard.

 

 

 

“I don’t think that’s supposed to go in there,” Mickey nods at the bubbling pot in which Carl has just poured some beer.

“Trust me,” Carl says, “beer makes everything taste better.”

Mickey is at the sink, washing all the utensils they used to cook whatever Carl decided to drop by to invent using his kitchen; he shrugs in that ‘suit yourself’ manner. “Alright,” He says, “Just try not to poison anyone.”

“Speaking of poison,” Carl starts, “I’m sorry about the other morning.”

Mickey’s eyes go up; he’s facing the boy with his back, so he assumes his expression here is safe.

“I didn’t think it would be a bad idea to bring Ian here.”

Mickey reels to flick some water on him, “You didn’t think, period.”

“Yeah,” Carl agrees after wiping the side of his face with the back of his hand. “Lip gave me lip” –they both chortle at the boy’s wording– “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Mickey hums, “he did the same to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

When Mickey turns around, he finds the boy’s chin on his chest. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” He urges, “Lip is just trying to look out for his brother.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to be an asshole.”

“Let’s be honest here, Lip’s always been kind of an asshole.” Mickey assures. “I’m not planning on getting involved with Ian again, so Lip and your family have nothing to bite down on their knuckles for.”

Carl pushes off the over, “You’re wrong,” he suddenly bellows, “none of it was your fault, Mickey.”

Said man falls silent because, just like so many times before already, he has no idea what Carl is taking about.

“Whatever happened to Ian wasn’t your fault, alright?” He insists, his eyes fuming. “You did your best with him. We were there, we saw it.”

Mickey lets out a small sigh, his tense form slowly loosening up. “He didn’t.”

“Who, Lip? He can’t look past his frog nose.” Carl blows a disparaging scoff.

“Ian.” Mickey corrects in a small voice. Besides, he still remembers Lip acknowledging his efforts back then.

Carl’s tantrum eases like a receding tide.

“I don’t know why the fuck I’m talking about this to a damn kid,” Mickey looks away from him, returning to the dishes waiting in the sink. “I have to pull my shit together.”

“Mickey?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, I really do,” Mickey says, “and I appreciate it. But, let’s just” he doesn’t know what he wants anymore “finish here so I can grab a smoke, okay?”

“You know, Mickey, I’m on your side.” He says, “I’ve got your back now.”

That honestly makes him laugh. “Like Connor and Murphy MacManus?”

“Exactly like Connor and Murphy MacManus, ‘expect I’m more bad-ass.”

 

 

 

Mandy’s Jeep parks by the sidewalk. She gets off, and walks through the open fence door, her feet practically dragging on the cemented pathway. She finds her brother and Carl sitting at the porch, immersed in a talk which they stop when she comes up to them.

“How was your first day at work?” Mickey teases.

She gives him the finger and leans back on the handrail. “I can’t believe I’m gonna have to do that for the rest of my life.”

“You can always go back to school.” He believes that it’s his legal right to annoy Mandy because he’s the older brother. But a part of him is always serious when he asks this.

“I’ll take the diner, thank you.” She grumbles, now her eyes stare at the plates in their hands. “What’re you guys eating?”

“Chicken curry,” Carl replies. “We left you some on the oven.”

Nodding tiredly, Mandy skids through the little space they allow her and disappears inside the house.

“So, you didn’t answer.” Carl resumes whatever they were chatting about.

Mickey swallows the portion he’s been chewing. “I’ll think about it.”

“It’s a four K worth Jacuzzi, Mickey, there’s nothing to think about.” He persists.

The older man only nods smilingly. “One thing though,” he says out of the blue, “this damn chicken curry tastes fucking amazing. Way to go, kid.”

Carl next to him tilts his head to the back and flashes that proud smirk. “I told you.”

 

 

“My shift starts at seven,” Mickey tells his sister after she asked when she couldn’t stand him scurrying around like a chicken with its damn head cut off. “I can’t find my shirt.”

“You’re working tonight?”

“Yeah,” he yells from his room. “Bouncer at a nightclub, they said I could start tonight –found it!”

She mutes the volume of the TV when he finally shows up, dressed in a black ensemble of dark jeans, dark timberland boots and the black t-shirt he was searching for earlier. And for whatever reason, there’s a duffel bag in his hand.

“You look like a thief.” She comments, passionlessly.

“Which means I look intimidating enough for people not to mess with me,” he says. “Hey, can I borrow your car. I’ll fill up the gas?”

She points at her room. “Keys are on the nightstand.”

Mickey goes in and out with the keys in his other hand. “Alright, I finish at two. Turn off the gas, close the windows and lock the door before you go to sleep.”

“Wait, we need to talk.” She leaves the couch and goes after him before he’d walk out of the door.

He turns to look her in the eyes. “About?”

“About last night,” the way she trails off sheepishly gives Mickey enough reason to shut her off right there and then.

“I don’t have time,” he simply says. “I need to go. And don’t bring anyone over while I’m gone.”

He bounds down the stairs when he hears her shout after him ‘Ian is always the exception’, he flips her off and rounds the car to fit himself in the driver’s seat.

 

 

Mickey drives the Jeep in the deserted street; everything is deserted at two in the morning. He spots a homeless sleeping on the sidewalk on flat card boxes, and another pushing all her shit in a shopping cart, the same like the one those children were playing with the first day Mickey walked out of prison.

He really wasn’t wrong; nothing has changed, even after a year and a half.

 

 

 

He knocks again when the first two aren’t answered, and, unbidden, he opens the door of Kevin and Victoria’s house and marches in.

The cheerful woos morph into hushed murmurs when Mickey walks in on the Gallagher family –sans Carl– and Kevin’s in the middle of the living-room like they’re having some ceremonial meeting, and soon narrowed and wide eyes stare at him in complete silence.

“Aren’t you supposed to knock first?” Kevin asks.

Mickey snaps his blue eyes up at the big man. “I did,” he gripes, “three times, but nobody fucking answered.”

“What’s he doing here?” Lip asks, but he doesn’t address anyone in particular.

Licking his lips, Mickey bites against returning the snide remark with another, Hammurabi Code and shit, but he doesn’t. In the awkward silence, Mickey’s eyes meet Ian’s. He can feel the rest questioning his eye contact with Ian, he knows they can’t even stand it, but in a territory where he doesn’t belong, Mickey finally finds some relief when he realizes that Ian is in the same room as him.

“Svetlana is in jail.” Mickey lowers his eyes, squirming a little under the glares of Ian’s siblings, especially Fiona’s and Lip’s.

“She got what she deserved,” Victoria says, wrapping her arms under her plump chest.

It dawns on Mickey that they must be thinking he’s here for the Russian woman, and so he rushes to quell their doubts with an air of nonchalance. “Let’s make a toast to that someday. Where’s Yevgeny?”

Even Kevin looks more defensive now. “Why?”

“Are you asking me why I want to see my son?” Mickey almost hacks a ridiculing huff.

“You’ve got a bee up your ass? Three years ago, you didn’t give a shit about him.”

Mickey glares at the dark-skinned woman. “That was three years ago, this is now.” He says, “The bitch is in jail, so I’m left to take care of him.”

Fiona suddenly finds the inspiration to be involved. “He’s taken care of here just fine.”

“Fiona,” Ian grumbles in a whine.

“I don’t need you fighting my battles for me, Krypto,” Mickey tells Ian, before facing Kevin again. “He’s my son.”

The bigger man weaves his way through the crowd, finally standing before Mickey and almost hiding him from the others’ view.

“I’m a father too, so I understand where you’re coming from.” He starts, “Lana was part of this family once, and so Yev is one of my children. He lives with us, he likes playing with Amy and Jemma. We love him.” There’s a plea in his voice. “He’s never left alone, alright? We take turns being with the kids. We’re his family, too.”

Mickey’s bottom lip goes between his teeth as he considers this for a moment; he would like nothing in his life now but to have his son under his roof, but Mandy has started work, and she works until evenings, while he starts at the evening and finishes late at night. They could take turns taking care of him, but he didn’t pull Mandy out of the prostitution life only to throw his kid at her.

Mickey takes a searching glance around at the flamboyant settings; there are toys around, Kevin seems like a sentimental guy who cares a lot about his family, and Veronica seems like the foundation keeping them together. They’ve been doing this family drama for years now, whilst Mickey’s ambition was newly born.

He doesn’t know what will happen to Svetlana, if she is going to get deported or not, but he is positive that Kevin and his wife would do their best to keep Yevgeny in the State.

His eyes fall on emerald green eyes again, and one fervent look at everyone tells him they’re all hoping he makes the right decision. It’s funny, because didn’t he agree that that’s how’s he’s going to be doing life from now on.

“I’m not gonna take him,” he starts, and can already hear sighs of relief filling the place. “Not yet anyway.”

“You can always see him, Mickey.” Veronica says, now her tone sounds more motherly than snippy. “He is, first and foremost, _your_ child.”

Nodding shyly, Mickey clears his throat. “Can I at least take him out on a walk now?”

As Veronica nods and retreats from the room to bring Yevgeny, Kevin cocks his head, staring at Mickey through a heavily-charged silence.

“What?” He growls.

“Do you examine your breasts on a regular basis, Mickey?”

As said man lifts a brow, he can hear a few bouts of chuckles and laughter filling the air, the tension slowly oozing out of the windows. Kevin is soon going up behind his back, his palms probing Mickey’s breasts over the fabric of his checkered t-shirt, causing his face to go red all the way to the back of his neck.

“The fuck, weirdo, don’t touch me.” Mickey breaks out of Kevin’s grip, his hands tapping at his breasts. “Why’d you do that for?”

Ian is the one who provides closure. “He went through surgery to remove a breast tumor, turned out he doesn’t have cancer.”

Mickey looks from Ian at the monolith, “so you’re gonna be okay?”

“He’s fine, but now he is Bart.” Debbie snorts.

Lip cheers, “Yeah, Barty!”

Alright, are they trying to play a trick on him here or what?

“Excuse me?” He asks, and looks up when Veronica comes up to him with his son in her arms.

“It’s something about my chromosome pattern,” Kevin explains as he and everyone watch how Mickey gracefully takes his son in his arms. “They said that I belong to the Huntsville people.”

Mickey has ruffled Yevgeny’s blond hair as a greeting, and now he puts him down. He looks at Kevin’s body from head to toe and shrugs. “You don’t look blue to me.”

Lip scoffs. “You know about The Blue Fugates?”

“Just because your IQ is a little higher doesn’t mean the rest is stupid, Lip.” Mickey defends, taking Yevgeny’s hand in his. 

“What did you do to your hair?” Kevin’s simple-mindedness must really get him into a lot of trouble.

Mickey is suddenly conscious about his hair and how he wrapped it in a small bun. “What’s it to you?” he snipes, and looks at his son, “You ready to roll, kiddo?”

Yevgeny nods affirmatively, until his locks whip back and forth, which draws a deep, composed chuckle from his father.

“Alright,” he looks up at Kevin and Veronica. “I’ll bring him back before my shift,” he reports.

As he walks towards the door with his son’s tiny hand in his, he can hear Veronica’s remark about him.

“He went from the dirtiest white boy in America to the prettiest gay single father in the States –” She cuts herself off as she gasps, “Wait, you are –single, I mean, right?”

Mickey is already showing his middle finger over his shoulder, probably for the ‘gay’ part, as he walks out of the door, and slams it shut.

 

 

 

In his squat, Mickey is adjusting the crown of his son’s cap so the sun doesn’t discomfort or hurt him, and listening to whatever the kid is babbling on and trying to act impressed when, unexpectedly, he hears Fiona’s muffled voice, and hears the command in it. He looks towards the door he just exited; it gets yanked open by Ian who steps out, two patches of red over his cheeks which means he isn’t in a merry mood.

Mickey lifts up from his squat, eying the redhead with his brows furrowed.

Ian doesn’t break their eye contact as he bounces down on the stairs and walks out of the fence, standing at last before Mickey. “I’m coming with.”

Mickey wipes at his nose, and parts his lips to answer, but Fiona’s soon stomping out of the door as well, followed by Debbie. He watches what transpires next like a tennis match.

“I can’t let you do this,” that must be the supercilious tone she uses to get her way with the kids. “I can’t let you ruin all your work.”

Mickey looks at Ian, waiting for his answer to whatever they’re arguing about.

“Go back inside, Fiona,” He grouses.

“You almost hit rock bottom, Ian. You went through hell.” She seethes, “You’re not pissing away your life, you hear me?”

Oh.

 _Oh_!

Mickey gets it now.

He looks away from Ian’s scrunched face; is that supposed to be an apologetic grimace? Mickey scratches at his temple before stepping away. He is not getting involved even if he’s the villain in this story.

Ian walks after him.

“You can’t go with him. I won’t allow it.” Fiona’s voice is still superciliously charged with command.

Mickey grinds to a halt. ““Alright, that’s it.”

It’s funny how the two parties are looking at this. Mickey thinks he was a victim, and Fiona thinks her brother was a victim. None of them ever bothered to think that Ian and Mickey were both victims.

The best part about taking some space to think is that you start to see things from a different, neural angle. Your take on things is more logical, and unadulterated.

You start to see how things would have been different if the circumstances were different, if your parents were available when it counted, if they took in your existence as something worthwhile or your sexuality as something to ponder for a second before smiling and letting you know that everything is going to be fine. You start to think how things would have been different if the South Side didn’t suck the life right out of you, along with every sliver of hope for your dreams to come true, if life wasn’t taken for granted, or if death wasn’t a constant occurrence.

 

He turns in his spot, facing Fiona, his shoulders tense. “I’ll say it in a language you understand since you _love_ putting your uppity self in every fucking picture,” he starts, “I was there, too. It messed me up just like it did everyone else. I wasn’t the one who took him out of it, but neither was it you.” He doesn’t waver when the three stare deeply at him. “I never expressed it in the healthiest of ways, and I regret I didn’t, but, for what it’s worth, I cared about your brother.” He looks up at Ian fleetingly before looking back at the brunette. “He’s been through hell but he pulled through just fine. He’s a big boy, Fiona; he can take care of himself.” Saying so, he tugs at his son’s hand and walks forward, leaving the Gallaghers to their drama.

 

Ian ends up walking by his side, with Yevgeny’s other hand in his.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

“–so it’s not as tough as I thought it’d be,” Mickey has been recounting the story of his first night as a security guard with Yevgeny on his lap. Ian is sitting across from him in the booth, nodding along to whatever Mickey is going on about. “Uncle Buck is a good dude to work with; he really made things easy for me.”

“Uncle Buck?” Ian echoes on a laugh.

Mickey can’t help but mirror the other’s lingering smile. “I talk for five fucking minutes and that’s the only thing you pick from my speech?”

“It’s the only thing that didn’t fit in your five minutes speech.” Ian dumps another portion of pie in his mouth, showing Mickey that half smile, half smirk.

Shaking his head, Mickey mutters under his breath, “You’re still a dick.”

“You can put it off, Mickey. You’re the only crazy thug I know.”

“ _Was_ the only crazy thug you knew,” Mickey corrects.

“So you’re really going legit,” Ian’s brows contort a little, “you are serious about this.”

Mickey’s eyes stay on Ian’s, “I told you,” he reminds, “I want to do things differently now.”

“What about Mandy, what does she say?”

“You guys spend time together more than it’s legally allowed; you know what she thinks of this probably more than I do.” Mickey says, “Besides, it’s not up to Mandy. I want to make the decision because it’s what’s good for me, not because it’s what I want.”

“Alright, what do you want, then?” Ian urges. “You aren’t going to act on it anyway, so, let’s hear it.”

Mickey twirls his tongue under his eyetooth again, vacillating. “I don’t know,” he starts, “I’ve wanted a lot of things for the longest of times, some I got some I didn’t. I’m not sorry for what I didn’t.”

“Like what?”

At that, he feels a pull, luring him into Ian’s green eyes. It’s still novel to him, that every time he looks into Ian’s eyes, he gets the sensation of drowning. He sees the way the ginger’s smile slowly falls, and he knows the way he’s looking at Ian is not natural, friendly or normal.

For now, just for now, the only thing he wants; the only thing that he graves with every fiber in his soul is Ian’s lips pressing on his, but he can’t say that, can he?

Trying to dodge the question, Mickey puts his son down, and squirms out of his seat. “Does it matter now?” He asks, and then looks over his shoulder fleetingly after placing a few bills next to his plate. “Come on, let’s take another walk. My shift starts in two.”

 

The door chirps as they close it behind them, and walk side by side while watching Yevgeny hop around a few feet ahead, trying to catch up to a couple of pigeons.

“What about you, though?” Mickey prompts, “We’ve been going on about what I want, what about what _you_ want.”

“No, we’ve been going about your decisions, choices.” Ian corrects, with his hands in the side pockets of his jeans.

“Come on, don’t be a smartass,” Mickey drawls.

Ian faces forward, eyes taking in the life pulsing around them. “It’s not what I want per se, but, I wish I had a chance to tell her goodbye.”

Mickey immediately knows whom his ex is referring to. “An overdose?” He honestly expects a retelling of how an overdose is what did her in, it wouldn’t be unusual, but he is surprised when Ian talks about how a blood vessel burst in Monica’s head. “Was she cremated?”

Mickey rubs at his chin. “No, no, buried,” he says on a small sigh, “Graceland cemetery.”

Mickey hums in recognition, “Well, fuck it.” He blurts out, smiling up at Ian’s scowl. “Let’s go see her.”

“What –like, now?”

“You’ve got somewhere else to be, Rusty Head?” Mickey checks.

“No, but–”

“So it’s decided.”

 

 

During the bus ride, Mickey keeps playing cowboy with his son on his thighs until Ian converses with him again, his voice low but louder enough to mask the background noise of engine and indistinct chatter.

“Can you fucking believe it?”

Mickey looks at him; their shoulders are pressed together, the long lengths of their arms are touching and Mickey is really doing his best here not to recline to the firm warmth. “What?”

“We’ve never been on a bus before, you and me together.”

Mickey pauses for a beat, his eyes have somehow found Ian’s and now he can’t look away. But when the hint clears out, he finds that he’s looking everywhere but Ian’s eyes. “There’s a shitload of never when it comes to what we didn’t do together, Ian. Don’t act surprised now.”

Ian speaks after a while, “we never went on that date either.”

Oh, yes. Mickey remembers that night. He remembers how drunk they both were, belting Love is A Battlefield and they both didn’t know how to belt out that song. He remembers how he could wrap his arm around Ian with no reservation or fear, he remembers how stupidly in love Ian made him feel. He also remembers strange men with guns and in uniform taking Ian from him, taking along that sense of normalcy Mickey had ever felt with someone…

He doesn’t say his statement about that night; there’s nothing to say. There’s no need to.

 

The bus stops at last, presenting a break from the heart-squelching memories.

 

 

Mickey watches as Ian peers down at the headstone of his mother’s grave, his shoulders slumped and his hands linked behind his hunched back, which is bathed in warm, sun-set shades. He stays behind under the shadow of a tree, keeping his son company as they wait for Ian to say whatever he wanted to say. Mickey knows it isn’t much, but it’s something.

 

Ian’s always been a sentimental. He always sees the glass half full, and believes there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. He was the one who brought Mickey out of his shell, taught him to embrace who he is and not be ashamed of it. Mickey knows all this, and it’s a part of why he fell in love with the redhead.

He doesn’t know why he is being on the offense now. Maybe, and he can’t believe he’s considering this option, but maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to come to terms with it because letting go would mean the end of any flicker of hope he may still have.

His ferocity in terms of protecting the ones he loves was the only thing that made Mickey, Mickey. If he gives that up, if he forgives and forgets, his whole existence will be meaningless. That’s what scares him the most.

 

Mickey watches how Ian, finally coming to grips with his loss, straightens his back and taps at the headstone in one final goodbye. It’s the last he’s going to touch of Monica, and that somehow emphasizes the loss more.

Ian steps away from the grave and makes his way down towards the tree.

Mickey pushes off the bole and juts his chin, “you good?”

“Yeah,” Ian’s smile is radiant. “That was cathartic.”

Mickey shakes his head on a smile of his own. “You’ve always been a sentimental fairy.”

To his surprise, Ian barks a hearty laugh. “That may be true. It never stopped you from loving me, though.” He notes out as he ducks to lift Yevgeny in his arms.

“It should have.” Mickey bites out, his tone playful. He takes one glance at his phone screen and the smile falls. “Oh, shit, I have to be at work in less than an hour.”

Ian seems to read his worry. “Yeah, go ahead. It’s alright. I’ll take Yev back.”

Mickey tries to make it a little easier for his ex as he reaches for his phone again, calling Mandy. “Hey, you’re still at work?” he speaks again after a curt pause. “Perfect. Ian is with me and Yev at Graceland cemetery; can you give them a lift?” –Ian is already swatting at the phone and telling him that it’s okay, and that they’ll figure it out, Mickey is having none of it– “Great. I’ll meet you at the house.”

Ian is scowling when Mickey looks up.

“I brought you guys here,” Mickey says in his defense, “the least I can do is make sure you two get back home safely–” he stops talking when he notices Yevgeny snuggling against Ian’s neck. “The little shit,” he mutters, “I thought he reserved that for me.”

A blush flourishes across Ian’s cheeks. “Kids just love me.”

Mickey makes a face. “He’s tired,” He approaches the two to peek at his son’s face, gently removes the fringes from his face and doesn’t fail to notice Ian from the corner of his eyes, staring intensely at him. “All the more reason you guys need Mandy to play chauffeur.”

“What about you?” Ian demands. He’s walking after Mickey who has stepped away and started walking towards the direction of the way out. “Mandy could give you a ride on the way.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I’m good,” He says, “kinda need to get things off my mind.”

“What things?”

Mickey keeps quiet until they reach the gate. He swivels for another look before his departure. “Alright,” he says, “Mandy should be here in a few. I need to get going.”

“Mickey, wait,” –Mickey does– “this is for bringing me to my mom.” Saying so, he leans in and plants a languid kiss on Mickey’s recently shaved cheek.

The shorter man steps rearward, his face reddening. “The fuck, Gallagher,” he grits out, looking around for any prying onlookers that might have caught them in the act. Luckily, no such a thing. He sends the other a scathing glare, before finally walking away. “Don’t do shit like that again.”

 

 

 

The walk here didn’t help, at all. The thank-you kiss complicated things for Mickey’s heart which had already been going through the blender trying to relax in the redhead’s presence all throughout their little trip with Yevgeny, but Ian had to go and make things even worse.

He knows it was just a peck. Ian didn’t mean anything by it, Mickey is just pissed that the boy didn’t look as shaken as he did.

 

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Mickey is hauled out of his thoughts, welcomed to the real world with blasting music and louder chatter. He finds a brown, spectacled man before him, dressed neatly in a white dress shirt and dark trousers and loafers. He is supposed to search them for anything suspicious before he lets them in, but the way the man acts familiar to Mickey makes him attentive about things other than security. “Huh?”

“You were at Ryan’s last year.”

He must be one of those jokers who throw boring parties in a loft and pretend they’re having the time of their life, with their gay cocktails and gay paintings. Mickey searches the man’s chest and pretends he didn’t hear him.

“I don’t suppose you remember me, I’m Isaac. I was at that party too” –Mickey is searching up the man’s legs now– “You helped me with dissertation. Um, I know this isn’t the place. Can I talk to you later?”

“About?” Mickey’s motions are brisk and professional.

“When do you finish?”

Mickey motions him inside so he can move on to the other guest behind. Isaac moves out of the way and stands next to Mickey instead.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Mickey tells him when; he knows the man is being annoying because he hasn’t partied inside yet, but once alcohol goes into his system, he’s going to forget even meeting Mickey here.

 

 

He doesn’t.

 

 

After bidding Uncle Buck good night at two in the morning, Mickey walks out of the changing room with his complexion pale with terror.

During the inspection, an older, bigger man showed up in the line. He rattled Mickey’s cores. Although Mickey had somehow managed to search him up without any accidents, the older man still fermented the fear he’d spent his life planting into his son.

“So this is where you ended up?” He asked.

Mickey completely ignored him.

“Speak when I ask, boy.”

That alone, spoken in a vibrating growl, sent a shiver down Mickey’s spine.

He searched Terry’s ankles, tapping at a metallic object. He looked up, gulped against whatever the cold smirk on his father’s face made him feel, and stood up. “You can’t go in with that.”

“Alex” –Mickey faced his robust partner who ushered him to let Terry in, with the gun tucked in his socks. Looking back at the cold smirk, Mickey nodded.

Terry walked past him, his shoulder intentionally hitting his son’s on the way.

 

Unable to resist the answer to the queries which he knew Uncle Buck had, Mickey coaxed him in the changing room to spill the tea, which the man did after learning that Terry is a relative of Mickey’s.

“You know Topor?”

Mickey remembered a few rumors surging around when he first started there, about a man nicknamed The Axe. Mickey had seen him before, leaving his Range and walking into the club with wide, confident strides. He had bovine eyes, wide nostrils and the two cowlicks on the sides of his mane which made him look like a blonde version of Jack Nicholson.

“What about him?” Mickey demanded.

“That mad ruski started off selling leafs at the side of the streets,” Elliot, the other bouncer who’s shown Mickey all the ropes and whom everyone refers to as Uncle Buck, spoke on. “The police always got him on a humble though. I don’t know how he did it, but he had the fucking talent. Next you know, he gets his hand on a deal and he’s the next fucking Escobar of the South Side.”

“A drug lord, okay, what else is new?” Mickey shrugged, “so what’s that got to do with the fucking guy?”

“Your _guy_ ” –Elliot lifted off the lockers– “works for him. The Russians, man. He’s been going in and out for half a year now.”

Mickey had always known his father was a ‘nut-job’, but to actually get involved in all this? The man always kept it simple, theft and assault. That’s how they lived on their whole lives. Terry was now changing the rules, and, God, Mickey wanted nothing with it.

“Those fuckers are mad psychos, they’d shoot you full of holes for a piece of joint” he warned, “I don’t care if he’s your papa, but, word of advice? Stay out of his ass.”

 

 

 

He finds a grey Mercedes parked across the street that honks at him. Hesitatingly, he approaches the vehicle, and the window of the passenger’s side rolls down.

“Hey,”

Mickey scrounges up a smile.

“Get in.”

He opens the door and flops down on the vinyl.

Isaac steps on the accelerator, the shiny tires spin on the asphalt, moving them on the road.

 

 

It was on an impulse; Mickey was dying for a distraction and this guy happened to be in the right time, right place. It sounded like a good plan at the time, but now that he is seated on a leather sofa inside Isaac’s fancy condo, he is starting to slowly but surely regret taking off with the guy on a whim.

As he turns his head around, eying the place like a compass, Isaac, still in his club clothes, comes up to him with two glasses in his hands, and offers one to Mickey.

“Best wine I have in my cabinets,” he says as he seats himself next to Mickey, doing that nervous laugh. “I’m looking to impress you.”

Mickey tastes the warm spices and black cherry in the sweet liquid; it could be a forty dollar bottle and thus he is slightly not impressed. He shrugs at the spectacled man.

Deciding he doesn’t like the silence, Isaac speaks. “So, why did the two of you break up?”

Mickey flashes the other a glare, wordlessly demanding he explains himself.

“You told me you broke up, but you never told me why.”

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey grouses.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to feel so attacked,” the man mollifies on a smile, “I’m just trying to see if there are no strings still attached.”

“Whatever that means,” Mickey takes another sip of his wine. Is it a gay fucking thing, that they don’t do beer? Oh well, maybe he can appreciate some things other than what he is accustomed to every now and then, he guesses.

“Here’s what,” Isaac places his glass on the glass table in the middle, and leans closer to Mickey. “When we met at Ryan’s loft, you left quite the impression on me. Ian is great, don’t get me wrong. But he’s not the long-term boyfriend material.”

Mickey was still in the process of swallowing another sip, but he chokes on it at what’s just been worded. “The –shit” Mickey wipes his lips. “And you think I am?”

“You’re single, and I’m quite the serious man.” Isaac elaborates. “I think this could work.”

Oh, no.

Mickey isn’t here for that. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. Coming over was a big mistake.

“Look, man, you’re cool and all, but I’m not ready for all that touchy-feely shit,” Mickey is practically groaning.

“We can take it slow,” Isaac persists, “it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“And you’re cool with that?” Mickey questions with an eyebrow arched.

“Not really,” Isaac grimaces, “but you’re cute, and honest, and I’m attracted to you. I think I want to try a little harder.” As he says that, his hand sides up Mickey’s thigh. “I don’t mind it being physical. I’m confident in my skills.”

Mickey follows the hand on his thigh with his brow still lifted.

“I don’t top, but if you want me to, I can.”

Mickey rolls his chin and tries to think about this for a second –his thoughts get jumbled when Isaac’s hand slips down his waistband, clutching at his cock.

“No,” he mutters. “No need.”

 

 

As he stands under the shower head, water spilling on him and washing away any trace of sweat, he is suddenly reminded of his withdrawal just as things were heating up with Isaac last night. 

The man is really patient, more than Mickey can say about himself when Ian used to be involved; but he can’t help but feel guilty for not giving Isaac what he wanted. It’s strange, because Mickey spent the first half of last year bending guys over and thrusting into them so he wouldn’t become the victim; he stopped when Damon, a Mexican bald guy, who had no wish to bend someone or bend himself for anyone, became his inmate after the other guy finished his sentence. Last night, however, it became less interesting after Isaac gave him head; his cock was into it, but his mind and heart weren’t, and Mickey was just not interested anymore.

 

He leaves the shower and doesn’t think much about it, until he is standing in the living room with a small towel around his waist.

Isaac is dressed in another dress shirt, his blazer on his forearm. “Wow,” he starts, “you really went hardcore with that one.” He juts his chin at Mickey’s chest.

Said man looks down at his left dip, and finds the poorly-tattooed letters. “Fuck” he mutters, facing up now, “sorry, I forget it’s there sometimes.”

Isaac waves it off. “Let’s head out for breakfast.”

His pile of clothes is neatly folded on the couch, so Mickey bends to pick his boxers. “Nah, I should go home.” He says, and, again, is reminded of how terrifyingly awkward his phone call with Mandy was when he told her he was spending the night out. “My baby sis must be worried.”

“Are you sure, we can grab food on the way?”

Mickey slips his jeans past his leg and shakes his head to dismiss Isaac’s offer. “I’m good.” he promises.

“I can give you a lift.”

Sighing, Mickey straightens up. “Look, Isaac, I know you’re just being nice –”

Isaac shushes him, which is the most rude he’s ever shown. Mickey is even impressed that he falls quiet. “You don’t have to give your answer now. I told you, I want to try harder.” His smile widens. “I brought you here; I’d like to take you back home. Just for my peace of mind, please?”

Nibbling at his bottom lip, Mickey finally agrees and nods.

 

 

The Mercedes slides over the gravel, finally coming to a smooth stop by the curbs. Mickey looks up at Isaac with his lips pressed; he has no idea what to say in situations like these because he’s never been in one.

“Mickey,” Isaac also faces him. “I hope you give me a chance. I can do physical; it’s an ice-breaker for me, anyway.”

The blue-eyed faces the windshield. “But I’m not making any promises. I haven’t been close to anyone so much since Ian. It might not go the way you’re fancying it would.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Isaac blows a sigh of relief. “I’ll call you again soon.”

“Thanks for the ride.” Mickey opens the door and slips out of his seat, closes the door and salutes the man who drives away from his house. He scratches his nape, chuckling to himself at how in the world he got himself entangled in something like this, before turning around.

Upon looking up, he finds Ian and Carl, standing at the porch and staring back at him.

 

Mickey shifts his weight to his other leg, his hands gliding into the narrow pockets of his jeans. “What’re you two doing here?” He really isn’t ready for this conversation.

“Perpetrators have been breaking into houses and stealing; they took Mr. Wilson’s stars, the Desert Storm guy?”

Mickey has vaguely registered anything Carl was talking about, because the glare in Ian’s eyes is pretty distracting enough. “Aha.”

“They’re setting up a club of non-trained pussies for the neighborhood watch,” he resumes, watching as Mickey takes up the stairs. “I’m gonna have to find the sons of bitches myself.”

Mickey flashes him a grin as he takes his keys out. “Good luck with that.”

“You should stay alert.”

Mickey chuckles. “I don’t think I have anything anyone would want to steal, but I will. Thanks.”

“Come on, Carl,” Ian prompts, “I’m sure Mickey doesn’t want us to bother him” –his glare only intensifies when Mickey looks up at him again– “He’s got some cleaning to do.”

He doesn’t mean it as retaliation when he says “I already showered at his place.” And he watches how Ian rolls his chin, his action firm.

“That was your boyfriend?” Carl’s deep voice asks, there’s even an accusatory bite in his tone.

Mickey looks from Ian to Carl. “I’ll keep a lookout.” As he pushes the door, Ian descends the stairs, whistling at Carl to follow. Mickey watches them leave, before finally walking into the house and closing the door.

 

When he talked to Mandy yesterday, she mentioned that Ian was spending the night over. It was convenient because he had to know about Yevgeney.

Now, as he enters his bedroom, he can discern the signs of another being going in here. Judging by the backside shape left on his duvet, someone other than him must have sat on his bed. The window is closed; he had left it open. And last he remembers, there were three cigarettes left in the pack he had left on the nightstand before going to the Alibi yesterday.

He immediately sends a text to his sister for some answers; it’s also a very good excuse to make sure his sister is safe.

[Have you been snooping in my room?]

The reply arrives quickly.

[For my own health, I tend to avoid coming in contact with anything you own. No. I didn’t, haven’t been snooping in your room, ass clown.]

And then another.

[How was it? Did you fuck him, did he fuck you?]

[None of the above. I went limp in his mouth.]

[You’re disgusting. A simple no would have been enough.]

[That's what you get for being a nosy little shit.]

He flings his phone over the bed with a huff of annoyance, peels his checkered shirt off and sits at the edge of the mattress.

 

He replays yesterday’s happenings: The Gallagher’s poorly-veiled resentment, Ian’s firm arms against his and his lips on his cheek. He is reminded of Terry’s piercing glare and Isaac’s offer –he drops his face on his hands– suddenly, he just wants a corner to hide. Gliding his fingers through his hair, Mickey heaves a sigh.

There is nothing that can affirm that Terry is going to be a threat to his peace again. There is no Ian in the equation, but Mandy is. When people he loves are involved, Mickey goes insane.

Terry is an entity that can’t comprehend the need to respect other people’s values because he thinks his are more right. But then again, since when does a monster like Terry have values; he had had Ian at gunpoint while the Russian whore raped his son, and he sat there, and watched.

Mickey pulls his fingers away from his hair, looking down at them as they shiver; look how weak you are, how scared you are, they seem to say. He always hated the person his father made him into, he hated the fidgety, scared little shit that has always been just there under the false bravado. Terry ruined him; ruined every chance he could have at normal and now he’s back.

As the images flash in his head, Mickey shoots up to his legs; there’s so much rage that wants to go off, so much wrong that wants to be fixed but knowing the fear lurking in his shadow, Mickey knows there’s no salvation in the offing. In a moment of despaired anger, he fists the neck of a beer bottle on the nightstand and tosses it against the wall. Glass shards bounce back from the impact, scratching at his face and arms.

His shallow, fast panting echo in the room…

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

“What happened to your face?”

Mickey chose not to sit at the stairs of the porch at dusk, and is still is having a good view of the neighborhood from the handrail. He looks down through the cloud of nicotine smoke he’s just emitted from his mouth and shrugs at Carl.

“Accident at work?”

“You didn’t have any this morning.”

The kid is sharp, Mickey gives him that. But, you know what, he also isn’t entitled to him. So, whether he lies or not, it’s his business alone.

“Anyway,” luckily, the kid’s attention span is short. “About the robberies, you think you can help?”

“Nah, sorry. I have to work.” He says, and almost takes it back at the sight of Carl lowering his head; he decides to share his expertise only, not his help. “What kind of stuff did he steal?”

“Miss Fenderson’s ventilation and Mr. Wilson’s Purple Heart and Silver Star,” he recounts with a frown.

“So, he’s going after things he can sell. It’s probably some fucking junkie who’s finally hit rock bottom.” As he pulls the cigarette out from his mouth, he adds, “What you need is real good junkie bait and a deadly trap.”

Carl’s frown slowly becomes a predatory smirk. “I see.”

Sometimes, Mickey really envies the boy’s simple world.

 

Mandy’s car parks next to the house and Mickey can see another figure in the passenger seat. His theory is proven right when Ian steps out of the vehicle, wearing a plain gray t and oily-green trousers. He looks away just as their eyes meet, bringing his beer to his lips.

“You’re still on the lookout?” Ian wonders as he steps up the stairs, followed by Mandy.

Mickey rolls his tongue behind his cheek, and shrugs, “Doing my part as an upstanding American.”

“You’re Ukrainian.” Mandy counters, she now finally comes to a stop next to him and Ian. “We’re going to hang out tonight, you wanna come?”

Mickey avoids their eyes and shakes his head. “I have work.”

“Isn’t it convenient?” She hums, “finally having somewhere to run to when the goings get tough.”

He glares at her. “I’m also going there to get paid and provide for us, fuck you, very much.”

She does that annoying flip of her hair and motions to Ian to follow her inside, but they don’t go far because Mickey’s hand is soon on her shoulder to stop her.

“Wait,” he starts, his voice lowered. “When you go outside tonight, you be careful.”

“I always am.”

“Mands, this is serious.” His stare becomes deeper. “Don’t stay out until late. Always make sure Ian is around.”

As she considers mocking his suggestion to include Ian, she is even more taken by the genuine worry in his tone and eyes, heck, even in his body language, and now the scratches on his cheek.

“Why, everything okay?” she asks, quietly, “Something happened?”

Mickey dips his chin, “you just have to trust me on this.”

She shakily nods her head. “Alright,” she agrees, “we won’t be late.”

And only then does he let her go.

As Mandy walks inside, Ian lingers by the door, his eyes scanning Mickey’s.

“What’s going on?”

Mickey scans his surroundings instead, his throat convulsing. “Nothing.”

“Bull.” Ian retorts. He shifts closer to Mickey, perhaps sensing the smaller man’s tension. “You’re all fucking tense.”

Mickey rubs at his chin, his stare landing on Ian’s. “It’s probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid.”

“About?”

Mickey is shaking his head. “Let me figure that out myself first,” he says, “Just” –he steps closer to Ian, one tiny step and they’d be chest-to-chest– “You keep an eye on my sister, alright?”

“Mick –”

“Just do this, for her, please?” Mickey assumes the nuance of worry in his voice is what makes Ian finally listen. “Keep me posted. Send me texts or whatever the fuck, just make sure to tell me.”

“I will, but Mickey, you aren’t in any kind of trouble, are you?”

The moment he feels Ian’s large hand touching his upper arm, the tension in his entire body just slips away. He shakes his head again, eyes fluttering and lowering. “Look, you can bail now, I won’t blame you –”

“Mandy is my best friend,” Ian glides his hand up and down Mickey’s arm, his voice falling almost into a whisper. “Don’t worry, I won’t pussy out.”

Mickey hacks a small chuckle. “Alright, thanks, I owe you one.”

With a squeeze on his shoulder, Ian finally steps away and into the house, leaving Mickey to try to breathe again…

 

 

He thought he was over-contemplating things, but he is glad his paranoia came to play because, for the second time in a row, Terry makes an appearance at the club’s doors, wearing the same cold smirk that managed to rattle Mickey the previous night.

He didn’t leave his house expecting a different day; he left expecting things to go to hell, but there was a resolve emerging within him, a resolve to never show his fear again whether Terry showed up or not. And now, he has to act on that resolve.

Terry is surprisingly very cooperative tonight. He lifts his arms when Mickey searches him up even though he knows it doesn’t matter if he’s carrying anything or not, this is just procedure. He also keeps his mouth shut and his comments to himself.

That actually scares Mickey even more; silent Terry means a storm is coming, and nobody likes Terry in his uproar.

Terry walks past him, whispering into his ear on the way, “You still hanging with the ass-digger?” he rasps, “and how’s little Mandy?”

It takes all of Mickey’s strength not to pull his 45 and shoot a bullet right between Terry’s eyes. He snaps a heated glare at the older man, and silently watches how he totters towards the doors with a maniacal laugh.

It’s alright. With Terry inside, Mickey knows Mandy is fine. Ian even proves it when he sends him a photo of him and Mandy at the bowling alley.

 

He becomes so obsessed with the idea of Terry pinning his helpless little sister and doing awful things to her, and all that keeps him from barging in and shooting his father in the skull is Uncle Buck’s gruff voice telling him to calm down every now and then. Mandy told him, in her own way, how she was still tormented by the man. Terry hurt him and Ian before, but the things Mandy had to go through because of him were even more horrid, more inhumane.

 

 

A few social butterflies show up in the long row, and not only are they insufferably rowdy, but they even have the gall to cut everybody in the line, causing a few guests to complain. This guy, with the hippie hairstyle and the bohemian pants and the messy beard, has got his arm hooked around his Janis-Joplin like-alike girl, and the two are already swaying like they’ve just exited some hole-in-the-corner bar and were now ready to burn all that off.

Elliot, with all the level-headedness he can muster, tells them to go back in the line and respect their turn like everyone else. The response, however, is not very welcoming. The two start mouthing off at the man who’s just trying to do his job, and Mickey beside him can sniff the trouble brewing.

Elliot’s posture becomes defensive when the woman’s assaults turn from verbal to full-on physical; Mickey is stumped, aren’t they supposed to be a symbol of peace. Go smoke a joint and pray to Ginsberg or whatever the fuck you do in your life, this club is off limit.

Janis’ handbag slams with Elliot’s bald, and while Mickey finds that quite hilarious, the professional part in him tells him to send the signal to the two at the door to close it. He whistles, clenches his fist and watches how the doors close. Turning to Elliot, he takes in how the big man is trying to fend off the flailing pairs of arms, and almost laughs. He doesn’t. He goes up to the three and pushes the man off Elliot, and as the hippie starts to go on about his civil rights, Mickey seizes the chance to pin him to the ground.

“Crap”

Mickey hears his partner grunt, and as he turns his head around to check, he barely catches a glimpse of Janis’ high-heel planted into Elliot’s left chest dip before the man underneath him head-bumps him, making him totter to the back with his hand on his nose. “Mother-fu–” He is not being ousted by a freaking hippie, not a chance. He grabs the man from the back of his neck, and slams him against a wall nearby, bringing full force with the momentum. “Buck, you okay?”

“Yeah. Somehow.”

He hears the man grunt yet again.

 

 

 

“It looked like you were having a one-on-one with an inflatable tube man,” Mickey snickers and it echoes in the empty locker-room.

“Eat me,” Elliot mimics the other’s snicker. He has placed some ice on his wound, and is now closing his locker and ready to leave. “Thanks for having my back, man. I appreciate it.”

Mickey did not expect that. “Sure thing, man.”

“I’ma head home, have some face-time with my woman,” he says, “she isn’t going to let me live this down, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah” Mickey scoffs, “a 6’4, 220 pounds dude getting the shit beat out of him by Janis Joplin. I wouldn’t either. You made my night.”

“Fuck you, Mick.” As he stands by the door, he stops. “Hey, wanna vo for drinks tomorrow?”

Mickey considers the offer. “Sure.”

 

 

Mickey walks out of the room, bidding the people he’s gotten to know good night. It seems like everything has simmered to a state of torpidity, and the city owls have replaced the distant honks of busy car drivers, or the loud music that has been pulsing from the building’s entire structure. He spots two men across the street, and he is pretty sure they’re having a philosophical conversation with the light pole. Shaking his head sadly, Mickey rounds the next corner for the lot where he parked Mandy’s jeep.

Mickey fumbles with the key in a hand, and the other holding the phone goes to the most recent text from Ian, which is attached to a photo of him and Mandy on the couch, playing the PS3.  He scrolls for details, and finds that Ian has sent this almost three hours ago. It is past two in the morning, and Mickey is ready to call it a night.

They say that certain animals can sense earthquakes hours before they happen, and, although humans can’t compare, Mickey knows that there are other things which we can improve, like your danger-sensor. He’d had an argument with Iggy about whether a danger-detector existed or not, and had stopped it at that because they were both too stoned to make it interesting, least of all probable. So, when he looks up from the phone and sees his father’s reflection on the window, Mickey knows his own danger-detector must have rusted from disuse. 

 

 

Mickey slips out of his boots, making his way to the fridge in the kitchen for a beer. The pin-drop silence signifies that his sister has long since departed for the realm of dreams, and he envies her. He knows there’s no sleep for him to hope for, and he’ll be sitting in the darkness for hours on end, replaying what happened at the parking lot and wishing it went differently.

 

 

Upon seeing Terry’s reflection, Mickey attempted to whip around but the first blow to his head somehow disorientated him, making him wobble to the side in the perfect angle for Terry to grip at his hair and knock the side of his head against the hood of the vehicle.

“You damn AIDs monkey!” He roared, repeating the battering, adding more force with each slam. “Flaunting this fag hair for guys to come and fuck you.”

Mickey gained his balance after coming to grip with what’s being done to him, and insinuated himself by bending and rolling around, locking Terry’s arm under his. He used the other to throw a punch to the man’s face, just enough to get him to back off a little. It worked, barely though, and Mickey seized the moment of the man’s moment of recovery to pelt and open the door of the Jeep, get in and tear off the lot.

 

 

Mickey places his beer bottle on the nightstand and goes into the bathroom, already resenting what he is about to see in the mirror. For once, he is right about something. The face that greets him once he turns on the light is grazed with small cuts and blighted with bruises like a molded sponge. There’s a long trail of blood beading from his temple all the way down to the long stretch of his neck. His disheveled hair is also wet which suggests another cut is somewhere on his scalp from the welting.

This hair…

He didn’t grow it out without a reason; there is a reason and why he isn’t bringing it up is because he’s embarrassed to a degree by it. When his ex-wife brought Ian to see him through that bullet-proof glass, he had made him promise to wait, which they both knew wasn’t going to happen. It just happened that he decided to let his hair grow, as a testament that he was going to get out one day, and see Ian again because, to him, there was just no place for him without Ian.

Now, Terry, that bigoted asshole, has tainted that meaning, has tainted the smallest of hopes Mickey was keeping from relinquishing and, now, he hates this hair, he hates the locks touching his nape. He hates his reasons, his decisions and his small dreams. He hates what he is, what he can’t be. He hates everything.

Mickey’s bottom lip trembles as he watches how everything crumbles to the floor to the last brick, stripping him away from any self-worth he might have earned by surviving. The only thing that stays is the bruised man staring back at him. Without thinking much of it, he balls his fist and bangs it through the glass, the image on it distorts to hundreds of eyes that keep judging him for running away, or for thinking he had any chance. With a barely uttered sigh, he evacuates the bathroom, returning to the bottle that’s sitting there, offering solace.

 

 

The door opens, and whoever comes in is greeted with the poor lighting of the bathroom since the rest of the room is left in dimmer illumination.

Mickey looks up from his perch at the edge of the door, finding, yet again, Ian, in gray sweats, stepping in and closing the door behind him. He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, the bottle between his feet and a cigarette in his hand. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Ian leans on the wall across from him. “Just wanna check on you.”

“How fucking generous.” Mickey grits out. Everything in his face hurts, everything he’s been building has crumbled and the man in front of him no longer belongs with him. Why should he indulge anyone at this point?

“I’m just trying to do the right thing here, don’t be a bitch.” Ian bites back. “Mandy’s been worried to death about you, and you act like you’ve got everything under control, but it’s not enough.”

Mickey places the bottle on the dresser and looks up; his face catches some of the light streaming from the bathroom. “I told you to bail if you couldn’t take it.” He berates, “I should’ve known you’d come crying about it, you’ve got a habit for wimping out.”

The other pushes off the wall, his tone accusatory. “Fuck you, Mick, alright?” he growls. “I’m here, aren’t I? If I wanted out I wouldn’t have agreed in the first place. If something is going south, blame yourself; you’re the one with a habit for blowing his life.”

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Just get the fuck out of my room.” Mickey stands upright, enraged. As he tries to slip back into the bathroom, Ian’s grip on his elbow holds off the action.

Ian ignores his petty snarl, pushing him against the wall he was leaning on just a minute ago. His green eyes lock with Mickey’s, livid, emotion-charged and deep.

“Get off me!” Mickey’s snarl deepens, his fists landing at the sides of Ian’s flank.

“Cut it out!” Ian roars, his nose touching Mickey’s. “I can see right through your tough act, Mickey. You’re scared shitless. You’re losing your grip and it fucking terrifies you.”

Mickey keeps on his efforts constant to try to push the other off. “I said get off.” He manages to land a solid punch to Ian’s side that frees him. He sends another when he finds the man nursing his pain. Ian isn’t taking the blasts in and shrinking in either, his attack is as vicious as Mickey’s as they exchange the blows.

This isn’t new to them.

This is how it all started, and this is how it ended. And now, it’s promising something that Mickey can’t, for the life of him, define. Is this another beginning to save what can be saved, or the seal on their ending, so they can move on with their life?

Ian has kept his blows below chest, avoiding aggravating the wounds on Mickey’s face from the two fights he had already gone through. And the short man isn’t very accommodating. He feels like he is being treated with kid gloves, it boils his blood. He blasts Ian across the face with enough strength to make him trip back and fall on the bed. He leaps at him to immobilize him, but Ian’s body is bigger, so it is seems a little effortless when he pushes Mickey off him until he falters a few steps rearward and crashes against the wall.

Ian dashes to pin him against it. “You think you can fool Mandy, alright, but you can’t fool me.” Ian’s hands have been pushing at the nooks of Mickey’s elbows, but now he pulls away, keeping his eyes on Mickey’s. “The Mickey I know didn’t care about consequences, wasn’t a fucking pussy about what he wanted. He would have taken what’s his without a damn to the world. So here’s your chance, you faggot. If I get out of that door, I’m never coming back.”

Mickey’s chest is heaving, going up and down as his lungs chase after every speck of air. His eyes, unable to resist Ian’s pull, tremble. “You want me to beg you, like some bitch?”

“Take what you want, Mick. You don’t have to say it, you never did, you moron.”

 

_I don't want to know who we are without each other_

_It's just too hard_

 

Mickey’s been spiraling; going in loops about just what went wrong when he could have changed everything by selfishly taking what he believes is rightfully his. Ian’s been leaving him hints, dropping them even way before the MP’s and prison. After coming out, Ian never wanted Mickey to change who he is, become what he’s not to make Ian happy.

 

_I don't want to leave here without you_

_I don't want to lose part of me_

In that second, where Ian’s eyes are burning with raw desire and his lips quirking into a trusting smirk, everything falls together and Mickey lurches forward, taking those lips in his. The reaction is fucking immediate. Natural, even. Ian presses against his lips just as hard, just as passionately, with his fingers raking through Mickey’s hair like he wants to drag his nails on the scalp and mark him. Mickey groans into the kiss from the dizzying heat and the pounding pain radiating from his head. He lets Ian slam him against the wall and kiss him drunk, until he forgets everything, until he forgets how to breathe.

 

_Will I recover?_

_That broken piece, let it go and unleash all the feelings_

 

He feels Ian’s hands impatiently tugging at the hem of his shirt, and he delights in response because this is really going to where he wants it to. He isn’t going to care right now. He isn’t going to think about the consequences of them together like how this new, matured version of him is ought to. He just isn’t going to care because his body is craving this. He just wants Ian.

Mickey aids the other by slipping his shirt past his head, and then his lips are soon taken in Ian’s again, the man who isn’t bashful about showing his bare hunger for Mickey as his hands undo his belt.

 

_Did we ever see it coming?_

_Will we ever let it go?_

 

Mickey’s hands clutch at the red locks; how fucking desperate had he been about wanting to do this for the longest of times. He lets the man’s tongue soar inside his mouth and rub his, lets his hands go to the button of his jeans, working it free from its fastening; so long as he gets to feel the touch of this red hair on his fingers.

 

 

 

Tattooed, blood sputtered fingers splay and then clutch at the bed sheets from the side of the bed, dragging on the fabric and leaving crimson smears behind. Mickey lets out a hoarse cry as he arches a little and grinds against Ian’s hot cock where it rubs the crease of his ass.

 

_We are buried in broken dreams_

_We are knee-deep without a plea_

 

Mickey keens –fucking _keens_ – when Ian presses his erection against his puckered entrance, and slowly pushes inside into the saliva-slick hole. “Fuck,” his breaths become shallow, but Ian pauses to give them both a moment to get used to the feeling. Mickey hasn’t been full and hot like this in over a year, and he is certain Ian, somewhere in his mind, is finding the tightness too much to handle but too good to abandon.

 

Mickey’s knees scrape against the floor with every snap of Ian’s hips, shallow, wet sounds echo from where Ian’s skin is slapping Mickey’s ass. He wants to feel more of this man. He wants to memorize his shape, his feel and his thickness. Recklessly, Mickey drags his uninjured hand to his ass cheek, and pulls so that the other has more access, and he isn’t discontented with the resultant pleasure.

 

Ian’s thrusts recede bit by bit, falling into deliberately, agonizingly slow thrusts. He slips his fingers into the black hair strands, and clenches a fistful, pulling it backward until Mickey whines at the harsh treatment. He bares his teeth and brings them to the pulse point on the pale-skinned neck, just nibbling and eliciting small moans from Mickey.

“Move,” Mickey moans through his teeth. “More, Ian. I need more.”

“Planning on it.” Ian drawls with his slur, his hand cupping Mickey’s chin and twisting it so that Mickey’s profile is facing him.

Mickey’s lips find Ian’s, and despite the angle, he is easily lulled into the kiss, letting out shuddering little whines into Ian’s mouth as their tongues brush in the lightest of movements inside the wet softness, before morphing into hard sucks.

Ian pulls away and wedges his mouth on Mickey’s pulse point again, plasters his smile against the skin, and lets his tongue lick at Mickey’s earlobe before snapping his hips again and speeding up pace.

Mickey’s eyes go wide at the sensation of Ian’s cock drilling deeper, rubbing at his favorite spots; it’s even more amazing when Ian uses his other hand to jerk Mickey off.

 

It doesn’t take long and Mickey abruptly shouts. His hips thrust back sharply on Ian’s cock, and his body shudders, muscles contracting around Ian’s cock as he spills his cum over the hand on his length. With the brutal pressure rounding his shaft, Ian also spurts cum, his body jerking and convulsing, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

Ian’s softening cock slips free from Mickey’s ass, and abundant cum spills from his entrance, plopping into the small pond on the wood floor which Mickey’s precum had created.

 

What follows is a sequence of harsh and shallow breaths, cutting each other off. Mickey lies there, somehow pliant, braced against the edge of his bed, with Ian’s weight on his back. He takes a moment to come down from the intense afterglow, before superstitiously sneaking from the added weight and the arms wrapped securely around him, flumping on his pillow with a barely stifled grunt. 

“I’m fucking spent.” He groans, rubbing at his forehead to ease the pain a little.

Ian is still on his knees, his cock tucked in his crotch. He sweeps his tongue over his bottom lip and directs his gaze at Mickey’s.

“What?” Mickey’s sleepy voice drones.

“What happened, Mick?”

Mickey’s throat bobs when he swallows and faces the ceiling. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Whatever it is, it’s affecting you.” Ian skids closer. “Mick, you said you wiped the slate clean. You aren’t exactly living up to that.”

As Mickey’s silence prolongs, so does Ian’s frustration.

“Okay,” he grunts as he lifts up. “Let me clean up your hand first.” Upon entering the bathroom, Ian’s furious “what the hell, Mick” makes said man scoff in secret. He comes back with a towel, and crouches beside the bed. “Was it so serious you had to punch the mirror?”

Mickey’s head lolls on his pillow. He isn’t sure he can sleep drowning in a pond of his own blood, and covered in crusty cum, but the blood has long since dried on the side of his temple and this isn’t the first time he sleeps covered in cum, so he can survive. He returns his gaze to Ian’s, taking in the concentration on the redhead’s face as he taps the wet towel on Mickey’s knuckles ever so gently like he’s scared they’d snap like a twig.

 

_I don't want to know what it's like to live without you_

_Don't want to know the other side of a world without you_

 

He lived in a world without Ian, and he didn’t enjoy the residency. He didn’t enjoy the perks of feeling lonely, or being choked to death by the reminder. He wanted Ian. Always has. He took the bait Ian placed for him, because he wanted to know if this was going to rekindle their love, or quench its flames.

With his lids heavy with tears of the stifling reality he got dragged through his entire life, Mickey lifts his healthy hand, brushing his fingers against the ginger’s freckled cheek, falling for the warmth underneath his skin.

 

_Is it fair, or is it fate?_

_No one knows_

 

What he knows, however, is that he doesn’t want Ian to leave. He doesn’t want his love to be treated like something that doesn’t deserve to be treasured.

 

_The stars choose their lovers, save my soul_

_It hurts just the same_

 

He can’t fall out of love with Ian; he’s been trying for a year. Ian is just always there.

 

_And I can't tear myself away_

“Mickey?”

Said man opens his eyes, which he didn’t know he closed, and the tears flee his ducts, rolling along the bridge of his nose. He gently thumps at the bruised protruding bone of Ian’s cheek. “It isn’t just something that I can shake off. I want my sister safe, I want _you_ safe. But it’s not something that I can guarantee.”

Ian’s hand clutches around Mickey’s wrist. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, Mick.” He promises; his stare hard and trusting. It takes him the next second to recognize the implication, and he slaps Mickey’s hand away. “Are you kicking me out?”

“I want you safe.”

Ian’s movements are brisk as he straddles Mickey and pins his hands at each side of his head. “Fuck that,” he bellows. “I can take care of myself just fine. I’m not leaving anywhere.”

Mickey’s sapphire blue eyes roam in Ian’s, and it suddenly feels like all the air is being sucked out from the room. It’s almost agonizing.

“You chose me, Mick.” Ian’s voice falls deeper as he ducks down. “You aren’t getting rid of me now.”

Mickey’s taut frame slowly loosens, with his muscles relaxing and his breathing evening it out. This is what he wished for, this is what he waited for Ian to say all this time; he’s always wanted Ian to stop giving up on them. His phone on the table suddenly buzzes, and he only breaks the eye contact with Ian to rid of the hindrance. Just as Ian frees his hands, Mickey picks the phone and connects the call, bringing it to his ear.

“Who is it?”

It’s past three in the morning; whoever is calling better have some world domination plan or they’d be the casualty in this franchise.

“Mickey?” Isaac’s voice sounds shaky. “Did I wake you, I’m sorry.”

Mickey clicks his lips tiredly, and sits up a little with the help of his elbow. “No, no” he rubs at his face, and winces for disturbing his cuts and bruises. “I’m just getting ready to sleep.”

“I’ve sent you a couple of texts, and remembered that you work nights so I’m calling now.” He recounts, “I wanted to talk.”

Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek for a beat. “It’s past three, Isaac. Go to sleep.”

Ian’s head props up at the name, his brows climbing up to his hairline. ‘Isaac?’ he mouths.

Mickey shakes his head at him to dismiss it.

“I will. I just wanted to hear your voice first.”

“Now that you did, go to sleep.” Mickey sighs.

“Just one more thing” –Mickey hisses at the redhead who’s stroking splayed fingers over his flank, up to the letters inked into the skin, and who’s also peppering kisses over his neck in those small wet sucks, and distracting him from whatever Isaac is saying– “I’ve been invited to a charity event tomorrow, you should come. I’ll text you the address?”

Mickey’s other hand swipes at Ian’s head when he felt the redhead hooking his hands under the back of Mickey’s knees and pressing them down. “I’ll think about it. Good night.” Mickey hangs up before he could end up embarrassing himself, and flings the phone over the bedding. “What do you think you’re doing?” he grumbles. “Doing it like this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker.”

Ian rests Mickey’s legs over the nooks of his arms and presses even lower, bringing his chest and his nose above Mickey’s. “Wanna do it, Mick. Like this. I want to see your face.”

Mickey takes a few labored breaths through his nose, before huffing. This guy is the gayest he’s seen in his life. “Come here,” he props his head off the pillow, pulling Ian’s head down. He connects their lips, enjoying the kiss as it heats up and prolongs.

 

Instead of his arms, Ian is keeping Mickey’s legs parted by pressing his large hands on his inner thighs to keep them parted, as his cock keeps thrusting jerkily into Mickey’s ass, reducing the man to a withering, moaning mess.

The squeaks of the bed legs and the thuds of the headboard banging against the wall fail in overshadowing Mickey’s broken whimpers. They fail in distracting Mickey from the absolutely fulfilling sensation of Ian’s nine-inch pounding into him like there’s a race he has to win. “Fuck, Ian!”

The moans alone make Ian delirious in the head. He skews his angle a little so that his knees are off the bed, the momentum bringing more strength to his thrusts. He watches how Mickey’s lust-laden pupils sink under his head, bite-swollen lips mumbling ‘right there’, before he forces his eyes shut.

Something about that sets Ian off, and he feels every nerve in him clenching. “I’m coming, I’m coming” he yelps, all his blood rushing in his body and the pleasure explodes in him as he jerks his hips with fervor. “Mick!”

Mickey’s arms wrap around Ian’s neck, nails digging into the sweat-beaded skin as he readies himself for the searing heat that’s going to seep into his ass. “Give it to me,” he growls in Ian’s ear. “Ian, give me all of you.”

Ian does.

He does, and revels in the shade of relief when Mickey doesn’t run away…

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

**Now**

His consciousness is slowly returning to him. Mickey identifies the cot under his back. He can hear muffled voices, and a beep, intermittent and disembodied, as if coming from underwater. He drags his heavy lids open, blinking to clear the fuzzy vision as the fluorescent light assaults his pupils. The moment his bearings are intact, and he is awake enough –though a little disoriented, a vivid memory flashes before him: the darkness of that night, the muzzle flash of a gun going off, Ian’s horror-stricken face, blood, and more blood. Then nausea hits him like a sucker punch. He groans, rolls over, and expels the contents of his stomach, whatever he had eaten getting disintegrated by bile. The stench is so ailing, and the tang on the back of his throat is so bitter. Just as the heaving subsides, Mickey feels small hands pushing him gently back on his pillow.

Sensing the danger of being a possible and incapacitated prey in an unknown territory, he fights beyond the fuzziness and disorientation to sit up and study his surroundings.

More voices start to become audible, and he picks up the silver voice of a woman just nearby asking him if he needed to vomit again; he groans in response. He doesn’t think he can handle retching for a second time

Cranking his eyes open at the presence in the room, Mickey spots a petite young lady in blue scrubs fumbling with his serum bag. A serum bag strapped to a pole stand. The pieces start falling together and he finally rules out his location. The bleached bed sheets should have been a dead giveaway, but he blames his disorientation.

“Do you feel any pain, Mr. Milkovich?”

Mickey lolls his head on the pillow and hopes that was a good enough sign that he doesn’t. He tries to ignore the prickly feeling he gets from the spoken itch in the crown of his penis; it must be a catheter. He flicks his wrist and it brushes against the side metal rails. That alerts the nurse who peers down at him with a brow lifted. Mickey’s eyes shy away from the overhead light and fall on the lady’s. “M-my sister…”

The nurse flashes that thin smile. “The doctor is going to be here in a minute.”

Mickey crinkles his face at the blunt question avoidance, and groans again deep in his throat. “Mands, where’s Mandy?”

The nurse is finally being useful as she tells him that Mandy is just outside in the hall for a phone call.

Mickey relaxes at last. He gulps over his parched gullet and rests his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

**A few days ago**

Mickey woke up to two gentle raps on the door of his bedroom, followed by Mandy’s disembodied voice telling him about the environmental disaster she always insists on calling breakfast, and her plans for the future which wouldn’t go beyond 6 pm of that ostensibly bright day. He listened in as she moved about in the house, closing and opening doors in her rush to leave.

After the fight with Terry the other night at the club’s parking lot, Mickey became even more paranoid, more anxious about what the old man was planning, or if he was planning anything at all. His father hadn’t look inebriated, hadn’t smelled of alcohol either which suggested he was very much sober and aware when he launched his attack.

At those thoughts his cuts and bruises, which ache had been dulled during his unconscious nap, began to retaliate, reminding him of the annoying ramifications that come along with being jumped and incapacitated.

He heard a low and prolonged intake of air at the back of his neck, and his eyes widened in the natural radiance of the morning sun, anticipating what would happen now that he’d given in to the temptation of letting Ian into his bed. He felt the larger hand on his twitching, and one furtive glance at it showed that Ian was slowly retrieving it, gliding it under the duvet and to Mickey’s top knee.

“Ah huh,” he groaned. “My ass is sore. My whole body is sore. I just want a bath.”

Ian’s hand squeezed his knee, and slowly guided it up and into his chest.

“Are you even listening to me?” As Mickey tried to crane his neck and glare the ginger into doing his bidding, Ian’s wet cockhead brushed against his hole, making it twitch and stretch around nothing. “That–” he hissed, rendered speechless by the rigid length stroking over his entrance. “You fucking asshole.”

“Yep,” Ian chirped, “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

The slicked crown of Ian’s erect cock slowly pushed in one long, steady thrust, causing Mickey to whimper…

 

Tomato and poached eggs on toast with some grapefruit juice, that was Mandy’s idea of a good breakfast for that day, and Mickey was so close to being impressed but the missing coffee prevented it. Although, he knew he had to make another grocery run soon if it’s a full house again –well, as full as it can get in this house, and if he wanted refills of coffee every time he was roused by knocking on his door in the early morning. Mandy perhaps didn’t understand the concept of wrapping up at two in the morning, getting beat up and then fucked until four.

The shower had helped. A lot. It eased the throbbing, it reduced the discomfort all over his body and he felt alive again as he sat at the kitchen table, devouring what his sister had spent time on making.

“I told you, it usually starts at 8. But I have today and tomorrow off.”

Mickey had asked Ian about the start of his shifts before they both seated themselves at the table, and Ian had answered, but because there was a lot on his mind, it went through one ear and out of the other.

“That’s why I spent the night,” Ian resumed on a mouthful, “Seriously, at least pretend to pay attention.”

“I _am_ paying attention,” he countered. “And when I said look out for my sister, I didn’t mean you can shack up.”

The other shrugged dismissively. “It was already late at night, and we both were tired. Besides, this is more exciting; staying on lookout and not knowing what might come at us.”

And that, that set Mickey the wrong way. He only left it out because it would spoil the start of the morning, but he knew that they would need to stumble upon this conversation sooner or later. And the sooner, the better.

“So what’re ya planning to do in your day off?”

Ian’s emerald-green eyes suddenly locked with Mickey’s, vibrant and radiant. “We can hang out?” he started, “You’ve got until 7, it’s plenty of time to waste.”

Mickey’s tongue flicked out in the quickest of movements, soaking his small lips. He returned his gaze to the leftovers on his plate. “No,” he simply said. “I’ve got plans of my own.”

“Are you seriously thinking of meeting with Isaac?”

Mickey’s blue stare snapped up at the incredulous, almost derogatory tone tinting Ian’s tone. “None of your fucking business,” he griped, and added after letting out a sigh, “Besides, there’s a friend I promised to meet. I’ve got stuff to buy. Day’s busy for me.”

Ian’s head tilted a little, eyes looking amused; they both knew he was anything but. “Alright,” he started, now placing his fork down and twining his fingers under his chin. “But I think it’s only fair if you answer my question. You and Isaac, is it serious?”

“Why would I want to answer that?” Mickey’s frown deepened in confusion. He really didn’t understand the point here. “Just because we fucked a couple of times, doesn’t mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian flared his nostrils, cheeks flushing with anger.

“It means whoever I associate with is none of your concern,” Mickey provided, now lifting to head towards the sink with his empty dish and glass. “You’ve got your boyfriend, and I’ve got my own thing. What’s so nuts about it?”

“Mick,” Ian also lifted up, going after him in hopes to corner him in the kitchen. “Trevor and I, we’re over. It’s done.”

Mickey didn’t look up from the dishes he was washing at the sink. “Mm.”

Ian leaned back at the counter beside Mickey, arms crossed over his bare chest. “The minute I told him you were back, he knew it was over.” He uncrossed his arms and shuffled closer to Mickey, placing a hand at the small of his back. “I’ve been thinking a lot, about you. And when I saw you again –I just, come on, Mick, you can’t be serious about a guy like Isaac.”

Mickey closed the tap, tugged at the dishcloth at the side to wipe his hands. “Here’s what,” he said, now reeling to face Ian. “When I left prison, I left with the intention to settle down, that was all I’d think of. I’ve lost a lot. I assumed that if I wanted to gain things, I’d had better change my take on life. Change the way I do things. Ian, you don’t want that. Not with me.”

“Mick–”

The other lifted a hand in the air to forestall him. “Just” –he cleared his throat with a quick gulp– “hear me out,” he said, “If you’re expecting an adventure, or a punch of adrenaline, you aren’t going to find one here. I can’t give you that thrill again, Ian. And a simple life is not what you want. Even if you go along with this, you’ll grow bored soon, and then you’ll leave. That’s just how it is.”

Ian was shaking his head, but saying nothing to disagree.

“I can’t just hand you my heart on a fucking platter and hope for the best, I can’t keep stepping on the same rake, Ian.” Mickey’s voice was calm, and a bird somewhere outside the window behind chirped, bringing his tirade to an unexpected stop.

“Then” Ian’s voice was almost a broken whisper. “Why did you sleep with me?”

“I thought if I did, we’d both remember how it was to give yourself to somebody you truly care about,” he expanded on the theory which started to sound odd on his tongue. “Thinking back on it, it seems that I used you. I don’t know. Did I?”

Ian’s headshake was faltering. “I enjoyed it, too.”

Mickey nibbled at his bottom lip and nodded. “Ian,” he took that step separating them, and stood chest-to-chest with the redhead. “If you want to stay here and have a life with me, you have to put in mind that I’m not the same person I used to be three years ago. If that’s not the kind of lifestyle you want with me, then go back to your boyfriend. I’m not going to hold grudges. I just want what’s good for both of us.”

Ian didn’t meet his eyes, only taking in the words while glaring at a London flag fridge magnet.

“Think about it.” Saying so, Mickey tapped the side of the other’s face, smiling up at him with that same serene way he had done the first time they met again. He walked past him, and rounded the wall to make a beeline for his room.

 

 

“That’s twenty in total, sir.”

Mickey probed his pockets for the money, taking a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to the brunette behind the cashier in exchange for the bags. He carried his purchases, and sauntered out of the shop.

 

Ian wasn’t so keen on delivering his point after what had happened this morning, he wasn’t fretful either; he simply changed inside Mandy’s room and left the house without a word. Mickey had been inside his, berating himself for the mess they caused, and also slightly doubting his decision to draw the line.

 

He wanted Ian in his life again, and he wanted them to have a somehow more stable living experience than they ever had in the past, but a part of growing up is that you get to look beyond what you want, and at what you need. And what Mickey needed right now was stability. He couldn’t find that living the way he had growing up.

 

With hindsight, maybe Mickey shouldn’t have been too blunt; Ian did say he and his boyfriend –Trevor, was it– broke up, and it somehow felt like it was his fault. He knows he shouldn’t blame himself for anything anyone decides in their life for or because of him, but with Ian it was more personal.

That night’s sex was heavenly.

That night, Ian held on to him with a force like a vice, and blatantly showed his desire for Mickey, which is something that he’d ever been shown when Ian had still not upped and left for West Point. That is where it gets worse, Mickey, more often than not, when he’s inside the privacy of his own mind, he replays the past and always draws the same conclusion: If he had been brave enough back then, Ian wouldn’t have gone through all the things his did. This is the only thing that Mickey so vindictively yet graciously takes responsibility for. It was because of his cowardice that Ian fled home, fled his avid love for Mickey and fled South Side for a much deserved break. That break had also included psychosis and rejection.

 

Mickey came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, making the bags in his hands swing across his legs. He felt the sunbeam overhead seeping into the pores of his skin, adding heat to the force with which his blood was being boiled.

He’d been giving himself excuses, trying to explain the bad things that have been happening to him, but he never stopped to think that, with the way he used to be, he must have caused Ian a _lot_ of anguish.

Mickey’s tense body suddenly loosened and his shoulder slumped. Was it wrong to make Ian choose, or was he supposed to allow him in despite the threat of being abandoned again?

 

 

Closing the front door with a back kick, Mickey made his way to the kitchen and rested the bags on the counters. He could hear the washing machine in the basement still humming and rattling in turns, and he assumed the bed sheets might take longer to completely dry. He stored the food some in the fridge and the rest in the cupboards.

Just like that, he lapsed back in the same routine.

He later used a liquid soap to clean the floors, starting from Mandy’s room and all the way to his. He’d already gotten rid of the beer bottles and half burned cigarettes; they were bringing back that stale smell to the room and Mickey couldn’t accept his son walking in to that.

Speaking of, he probably needed to purchase a bed for the spare room. His son couldn’t keep napping in his room, and considering what had happened the night before, that was ought to strengthen his resolve. Speaking of, _again_ , Mickey needed to give Isaac a call.

He liked the man, a lot; most people would have given up but Isaac was keeping his promises and being all grown up for him, and Mickey hadn’t respect that enough to give a proper answer. Isaac didn’t deserve that half-assed attention, or those annoyed gestures because, when Mickey really thinks about it, Isaac had stayed up until late to speak to him.

With a hand rubbing over his face, Mickey pecked out his phone from his back pocket and scrolled for Isaac’s number, finally dialing it up.

“This is quite surprising,” Isaac said in greeting. “I honestly didn’t expect you to call.”

“Yes, sorry.” Mickey winced, “A lot’s been going on, how’re you?”

“Happy” he said and tacked on, “that you finally called.”

Mickey couldn’t help but scoff, but there was no malice in it.

“You sound oddly less cheerful, is everything alright?”

Blowing out a small sigh, Mickey nodded. “You know, life.” He replied. “Um, look, you’ve got a minute?”

There was shuffling of papers in the end of the line before Isaac spoke again. “Sure, what is it?”

“Look” –God, he didn’t know how he was supposed to broach that in the most sensible way– “I’ve been doing some thinking about this, about us.”

“And what did you conclude?”

“That I am still messed up, my life still is. I’m not ready to jump back into all that, nor am I interested in dragging somebody else with me into this.” He told him with a steady voice. “I’d love to start something with you, I really would, trust me, but with the way things are now, with the way I am, it’s just not going to work.” There was a long spell of silence, interrupted by Mickey’s repeated small sigh. “Say something.”

“To be honest with you, Mickey, after the call last night, I decided that if you didn’t show up in the event today, I’d just give up.” He says, “You did seem like you had a lot going on in your life, and what I want is a stable relationship. I’ve had my share of bumpy roads. But I don’t suppose you want that with me.”

Mickey’s lips parted in a sneer; they could have made it work, really, because they both wanted the same thing. They just don’t want it with each other.

“Are we cool?”

Isaac did that prolonged, hesitating hum that worked on Mickey’s nerves, before finally chuckling. “Of course we are, Mickey.” He finally said. “We can still be friends; I haven’t changed my opinion about you, okay? I still think you’re one of the very few interesting people with whom I’d like to stay in touch.”

“I’d be honored.” Mickey smiled to himself. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I should have been clearer about this before. I kept leading you on. It was wrong of me.”

“Apology accepted,” Isaac chirped. “Well, I guess a part of why I like you is because you’re naturally a rude scumbag. But you’re attractive, so that kind of balances things out.”

“Alright,” Mickey let out a hearty laugh. “That’s good to hear. Hey, let me make it up to you later.”

“Oh, you’d better.” Isaac played along with it.

“Nothing fancy, alright?” Mickey reminded, “Sleazy bars and cheap bourbon, that’s my offer, take it or leave.”

“Sounds fun, I’m down.”

“Good,” Mickey exhaled noisily. “I got to go now, call you later.”

“Take care.”

 

  

Elliot’s call brought his chores to a halt. Mickey capitulated to the bulky man’s ‘come on, first round on me’, he could never say no to free booze offers. Pecking out his keys from the coffee table, Mickey headed towards the front door, assured that his bed sheets and clothes were dry and folded over his bed, and that there was food for Mandy, when and if she arrived home before him, which she could simply reheat and pretend it was edible. He was also assured of the weight of his gun tucked to his side.

 

It was a relief to know that Elliot lives nearby; a South Sider but situated on a farther part of those dangerous neighborhoods. As if it mattered. The only thing Mickey was thankful for right now was that he didn’t need any form of transportation to get to the bar where Elliot had agreed on meeting.

With the temporary privacy during his little trek towards said bar, Mickey started to succumb to the conviction that he owed Ian an apology, and, even more, he made it into a resolve to meet up with Ian later; ban or not, he needed to get it out of his system so that if the man decided to go on his separate way, at least they would be on good terms.

 

Elliot waved lazily for Mickey so he could pinpoint his table, which the short man did, now striding up towards it with his chest puffed-out. He greeted Elliot with a jut of his chin and bump of his fist on Elliot’s.

“What’s good?”

Elliot ushered to his beer bottle, “just got here myself,” he reminded, and now waved to the waitress to bring another. “Shit, man, I took most of it, how come you look way worse.”

Mickey flashed his middle finger as he seated himself on the chair across from the bigger man. “Bite me.”

Elliot made a face, “nah, might catch something.”

 

With a bottle nested between his palms, Mickey decided to elaborate on what he’d been recounting to Elliot who was really proving to be a good listener by this point. “I don’t know, alright?” He swiped at his nose with a finger before wrapping it around the bottle again. “He’s been like my fucking shadow, can’t seem to shake him off.”

“That’s assault,” Elliot commented, “he could really get imprisoned for that.”

Mickey appreciated his silence more; Elliot’s commentary wasn’t needed, especially if it didn’t meet his life standards. Has he ever taken a backward glance at the last twenty so years of their lives at all? This isn’t Dexter. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said and smirked around the neck of the bottle before taking a sip.

“Look,” Elliot tried again, more seriously. Mickey appreciated him for that alone. “Far as I can tell, there’s a shit load of stuff you can toss him in prison for. You really never considered involving the police?”

Mickey shook his head.

Elliot swiveled his head around to make sure no priers were in their earshot, before leaning in close with his elbows on the table. “Your old man is involved with the Russians, so I don’t want to give you any wild ideas, but” –his eyes turned darker– “that alone can be useful, s what I’m saying.”

Mickey considered the input for what it was at first, but then the indication started giving him even more ideas. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re right.”

 

 

Tony freaking Markovich, that was the guy Mickey ended asking for help.

After exiting the bar around six, Mickey left Elliot to his phone-call with his wife and made a u-turn towards the precinct on the premise that he gets counsel on how to get the drop on his father. Upon entering, two police-officers in official garments standing at the reception desk had looked up at his battered face; one happened to be a familiar blond, and hence the awkwardness.

“Mickey,” Tony chirped, letting his comrade go on without him as he approached the Ukrainian. “What can we do for you?”

Mickey’s eyes wandered around like he was tracking a prescient ghost, before looking back at Tony. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Tony’s smile dropped, he nodded. “Sure.”

 

 

With Terry’s involvement with the Russians, Mickey was told that it might not be as easy as he thought it would be. Mickey only requested that they keep a trail on his sister at least because the domestic violence throughout their childhood had been ignored enough; they ought to make themselves useful instead of sucking taxes out of the working class and stuffing themselves with donuts. How fatter they wanted to be before they fucking did something for someone who was really running out of options and being driving to a corner? It was only a matter of time before Mickey resorted to the gun tucked in his waistband, and then the circle of falling in the despair of being barricaded in prison would resume again, and he would never get to chance a stable life like he had always wanted.

With a huff, he pushed the door open and got out of, getting immediately wrapped by the crimson of the sinking sun. It was ridiculous to come there; he’d never relied on legal authorities to have his back, why did he think he could now?

Just as he made the decision to leave, Tony burst out of the doors, Mickey’s name rolling out of his lips.

“Mickey, wait!”

Against himself, the brunet did. “What?”

Tony neared him, he walked so close that Mickey felt the firm muscles against his side. There was a hand that landed on his upper arm as well, and Mickey scrutinized it.

“I know you don’t trust the police, and you have all the right not to” Tony started, and the raw feelings flaring in those sky-blue orbs made Mickey want to listen to the rest of it. “But I’m not the system. You’re someone from my neighborhood, and I look out for the people in my neighborhood.”

Mickey wet his lips.

“I’ll put someone to supervise your sister,” he promised, “I’m supposed to go on a patrol in a few hours, so I’ll make sure to check on you as well.”

Mickey, against himself, found that he was slowly nodding to the suggestions. “Okay,” he said, and repeated, “okay.”

That was good enough for Mickey.

 

One different route and he ended up being lead right to his old high school. Mickey skid across the width of the fence looking out the baseball field, and just at the side, he spotted the bleaches; his and Ian’s favorite spots. He took in the images playing just beyond those bleachers as the dusk breeze caressed his naked arms and neck. The crisp breeze felt so light that Mickey had to make sure no one was tickling him. One could say that that was the closest to stable he’d been in years; just, for once, halting everything and feeling something that had been going since the dawn of time, and reviling in it.

So much had happened, and Mickey believed that so much had yet to happen.

 

 

 

 

**Now**

Mandy keeps her eyes on the blips pinging up and down on the monitor, and then on the evened rise and fall of her brother’s chest as she fights back a weary sigh. He has regained consciousness when she was out in the hall speaking on the phone with her boss and ripping into him to extend her day-off to two more; Ian is working as well and he wasn’t allowed any breaks. So it fell on to her to look after Mickey and pray he pulls through. So far, he has. And he has fallen back asleep soon after the doctor vacated his room.

It’s been a few days now since Mickey was rushed to the surgery room on a gurney; she was at work when she received the news from a distressed Ian who had been at the scene.

 

“What?” She had demanded, eyes flicking from Ian to the graying man in a lab coat. They’d been waiting in the waiting room for almost two hours when the doctor finally came up to them still in his surgeon mask and hat. Both Mandy and Ian lifted up, ready for the news.

“Surgery,” The doctor repeated. “I’m sorry, but a sizeable tear like that in his liver requires immediate surgery. Luckily, the bullet didn’t do more than cause the tear. We managed to take the bullet out but we need you to sign this so we can move on with this operation or we’ll risk liver failure, and his body going into shock.”

Mandy, still trembling from shock and fear, nodded; immediately receiving a clipboard from a nurse for her signed consent.

 

A phone chirps on the bedside table, bringing Mandy to the hospital room where she’s sitting keeping vigil over her older brother. She picks up the phone, which is Mickey’s, and finds a text from someone called Isaac and three calls from Elliot. Returning the phone to its place now, Mandy stares at her brother’s sleeping form again; the bruises that have been prominent on his face four days ago are now a fading shade of green and yellow, the cuts have also mended beautifully and the surgery was a success.

Mandy doesn’t know why these things keep happening to her brother; he’s never been a role model, but he tried his best. He looked after her the only way he knew how, the only he could, but with his life always taking bad turns, he could never stick around to be her support pole. She doesn’t blame him. She never did. Mickey has it bad same as her, and maybe even worse.

When Ian spent that night over, Mandy head them. She had been deep into slumber but their ruckus had awakened her, ruling her to bear witness to their long-awaited reunion, and that had made her happy; the happiest she’d been in a year. She could always see how cheerful Mickey was whenever Ian was around, and had sometimes envied but never resented them for what they had. Now, however, it seems like everything is falling apart.

 

At the day of the shooting, as they waited for Mickey to come out of the surgery, Ian told Mandy about Mickey’s one condition for them to be a couple again. Had recounted his thoughts on Mickey changing into this calculating, incisive and wise person, and even divulged about his admiration towards her brother. She listened with unbiased ears to Ian as he went on and on about wanting a life with Mickey, a second chance; and with Mickey being in the surgery room with no word if he would come out alive or not, Ian had sobbed about that second chance.

 

Mandy understands, sort of, why her brother would make such a condition; he’d sacrificed enough. They both had. It’s high time they cherish their lives a little more; no one is above them, or lower. And that’s what Mickey’s teaching her now.

A knock on the door prompts her, and Mandy looks up, finding Ian, still in his uniform, stepping into the room with his lips pressed into a smile.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Ian can’t help but look a little guilty. “I begged Susan to give me ten minutes.” He juts his chin towards Mickey. “How’s he doing?”

Mandy switches to look at her brother again. “Better,” she says as she takes in the fact that Ian is approaching the bed from the other side across from her. “He woke up a while ago. Doctor says they’re keeping him here tonight too, but since he only requires bed rest, he can leave tomorrow.”

Ian scratches at his forehead. “That’s good news; I have the next two days off. I’ll take over.”

Mandy’s grimaced face bespeaks her worry. “Are you sure?”

Ian takes a moment to nibble at his bottom lip, his pupils wandering bout the sleeping face of the man he embraced and loved just three days ago. “I am.”

 

 

*******

 

 

Bucky feels the burn of the IV on the nook of his arm before he hears the intermittent beeps. Blue pupils get swollen by blackness when he parts his eyes at the poorly-lit hospital room. A side of his torso throbs as he jars it with constant shuffling, before finally settling on a comfortable position.

There’s some illumination provided by whatever fluorescent lamps in the hallways’ ceiling, which aids Mickey’s eyes to adjust to his dim surroundings, and finally discern the human shape between all that darkness, perched on a chair beside his bed.

“Mands?”

The person on the chair rights himself before clearing his throat and finally speaking. “No, unless Mandy grew a dick overnight.”

Mickey rasps a small groan, “Now I gotta live with that image in my head for the rest of my life.”

“She’s home.” Ian beside him flips the light of the bedside lamp on. “Did I wake you?”

Mickey shakes his head lethargically. “My throat is dry.”

Wordlessly, Ian brings a cup to the ailed with the straw facing skyward. “Small sips at a time, Mick.”

Mickey follows the instruction given to the word. He only lets go of the cup when his throat isn’t too uncomfortably dry that it would cause him coughing fits. He leans back again and looks up at Ian, silent, thoughtful and careful.

Ian was waiting at his house at the day of the shooting; he had told the guy not to show up unless he agreed to the terms, and Ian did show up. It’s been causing Mickey a headache thinking of the possibilities of Ian showing up at his threshold, the consequences of his actions which Mickey can attest have already panned out what with him ending up on a hospital bed. He’s not saying it was Ian’s fault that he’s here, he’s saying that, near or far, Ian will always be sucked in to the danger surrounding Mickey like the halo around the moon.

He had been walking back home after throwing the trash when he saw Ian standing by the door with his hands in his pockets, Mickey had stood there gawking with disbelief because, God, the things he could understand from Ian’s appearance. The only thing that had finally managed to come in between, like so many before, was his father’s wrath, but this time manifesting in a piercing bullet penetrating his guts, followed by the harsh words that, no matter how many times Mickey try to dispense as a crazy-man’s talk, always manage to get to him in his weakest.

“Ian”

“Mick”

The names are uttered at the same time, and the two former lovers stare at each other with intent.

“Go ahead,” Mickey croaks.

Ian has already placed the cup back on the bedside table, and now he props his elbows on his knees and intertwines his fingers together. “After what you told me, I started doing some serious thinking.”

“Really?” Mickey’s voice sounds faint yet playful. “And what did you decide?”

“I don’t remember.” Ian deadpans with his green-blue eyes on Mickey’s. “But whatever it was I don’t think it matters much now. What happened at the day of the shooting reshaped my resolve, Mick. I don’t think I want to call things off. I’m not ready to break up, not ready to lose you. I know this sounds selfish –”

“Hell yeah it is.” Mickey interjects.

“But I don’t want us to go our separate ways, Mickey. There’s no reason for us to. Not anymore.”

Mickey’s brows tremble at the vivid reminder of him beseeching Ian at that night to tell him if his father was still alive after Tony, who had been patrolling that night, shot him, and Ian pressing down on his wound and, amidst the havoc, promising him that the nightmare was finally over.

“It’s not about that dead motherfucker, Ian; it’s about you, and me, and whether or not you’re accepting of a simple life.”

“I am,” Ian simply say, defiant eyes on Mickey’s, piercing despite the poor light. “Are you?”

Mickey’s pupils roam in Ian’s. He can’t believe how the talk has steered to this, and wasn’t he the one who set up the conditions in the first place? Now he feels like it’s his answer is what all this is depending on. He knows he wants Ian, always has, and now the ginger bastard has already accepted the terms in a not so fashionable way and was now giving Mickey the freedom to choose. Or not. God, those eyes, and that raspy nasal voice and that hair… Mickey finds himself nibbling at his bottom lip, and Ian slowly mimicking his action.

“If you go back on your word, even for just a second, I’ll kick your god damn balls.”

Brightening up, Ian hacks a hearty chuckle. “Noted.” He says on a small nod. “Do we kiss to seal the deal?”

Mickey is suddenly all meek and shy, flushing all the way to his ears. “You’re so fucking gay.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
